Greatest Love Story of All Time

by Lucy Robinson

  Sent: Sun, 7 Feb 2010 19:33:50 GMT From: Fran O’Callaghan [franocal@fmail.com] To: LEONIE [LeonieBlythe@fmail.com] Subject: Fuck See below. Is he being serious? I can’t tell. HAVE ALREADY HAD IT WITH THESE CUNTING DATES, LEONIE. PLEASE CAN IT STOP? I want out. YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM JAMES! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY! > Did you use the word ‘cunt’ that many times just to test me? > I propose we meet on Thursday night at the Bridge House pub in Little Venice. According to my calculations it is equidistant between our two houses and I do not want there to be any resentment if we do not get on and one party has had to travel further than the other. I should say now that I believe in buying the first drink but after that I prefer an ‘even stevens’ policy. Please, tell me what time is convenient. Yours, James I shifted around in the back of the taxi, trying to find a way of sitting that didn’t involve being cut in two by the crotch of my high-waisted trousers. How did women like Nellie manage to dress like this every day? It was like having a cheese slice in your crack. I looked over at Alex, who was slumped elegantly on the other side of the cab, fiddling with his iPhone. The effort of being near him over the last two weeks had been intense and I was developing facial paralysis from the effort of fixing a smile I didn’t feel. And now here he was, gatecrashing my fake shoot at Nellie Daniels’s posh Chelsea mums’ club. As I had crept furtively into a taxi on Grays Inn Road earlier on, he had appeared out of nowhere and grabbed me. ‘Where are you off to?’ he’d asked, his gaunt features framed by his stupid trendy hairstyle. He was wearing a black shirt with a slim grey tie and an extremely expensive military jacket. If he wasn’t such a tosser I’d probably have to admit that he was quite attractive. ‘I’m shooting a recession story about the Chelsea set and I’m in a hurry. I’ll tell you all about it later,’ I replied, leaning over to shut the window. But before I could, Alex jumped in. ‘I’ll come,’ he said. ‘Hugh gave me the afternoon off because he was so pleased with my Nick Bennett dossier. It’s good to get out with a camera every now and then.’ Why had Michael’s best friend – of all the people in the world – been sent to torment me? Why couldn’t I stalk Nellie in peace? As usual, I felt small and stupid in Alex’s presence, like Bridget Jones fannying around with her press releases. As I stared out of the window it occurred to me that it wasn’t just Alex who made me feel this way. I’d often felt like a total moron around Michael too. His Oxford PPE degree and air of knowing stuff had scared the living hell out of me so I’d positioned myself, from the outset, in a place of deep intellectual inferiority. It was easier to play the buffoonish simpleton than to try to have a conversation with him about Clever Stuff and end up exposing myself as a buffoonish simpleton. ‘God, the brazenness of all these bloody countries, pretending to be working multilaterally in the Middle East … What a fucking joke. Doesn’t it just incense you?’ he’d raged one night about a year ago. I’d frozen, a piece of steak and ale pie halfway to my mouth. ‘I, er … Yes. Incenses me. Does the same to Duke Ellington, doesn’t it, Duke Ellington?’ Duke Ellington hadn’t even bothered to look my way. Michael was clearly frustrated. ‘Go on. Tell me, clever Michael Slater. Tell me what’s wrong with these countries.’ And he did, for about three hours. While Michael talked, I ate a steak and ale pie, then ate Michael’s steak and ale pie. I had a bath, I shaved my legs and got into bed. And when he’d finished, I got out of bed, padded over to my dressing-table, where he was sitting, and put my arms round him. ‘You are intelligent beyond my wildest dreams. I love you,’ I said. His grin had stretched from ear to ear. ‘No, I’m not. Don’t be silly.’ ‘Yes, you are, Michael. That’s why I fell in love with you. Your amazing brain. Well, I suppose you don’t look that bad either.’ He buried his head in my stomach, smiling uncontrollably. ‘I’m not clever,’ he said delightedly. I stood back and looked at him. Then I let out a little growl and whispered, ‘Take me now, Michael Slater, you intellectual fiend.’ We’d had probably the best sex ever that night. He was on fire. As I fell asleep, an uneasy thought had flashed across the back of my mind. Michael was too clever for me. I wasn’t good enough. Turn the taxi round and come back to work, you fucking basket case, Dave texted. No. You‘ll get yourself sacked Fannybaws, came the response. I turned my phone off and brushed down my posh trousers. It may well be time for me to purchase a proper handbag, I thought, clutching my Primark holdall. How was I going to keep this made-up shoot a secret now Alex was here? As we inched down Brompton Road I considered throwing myself out of the taxi by way of escape. But I wanted a bit more crack first. A bit more Nellie. I wanted to know where her soft side was; how well she looked after him; what she liked about him. I wanted to know who was in charge in bed; I wanted to know if she was in love with him yet and I wanted, more than anything else, to know if he was in love with her. It was Monday, five days since last week’s Meditation when she’d failed to turn up. And I hadn’t been able to take any more of the waiting. ‘So, anyway, Alex, this is going to be pretty low-key. I’ll shoot the interview on this camera and you can monitor the sound, if you want. Any interference or distortion, give me a nudge and I’ll sort it out. OK?’ ‘Yeah, whatever,’ he said languidly, continuing whatever he was up to on his iPhone. ‘It was a bit last-minute organizing this, actually, and I’ve not had a chance to run it past Hugh and everyone, so until I do, could you keep it to yourself?’ My face was going red. Alex peered at me suspiciously. ‘That’s fine, Fran, but I don’t want any trouble.’ ‘No, no trouble.’ He stared at me for a moment, then said, in deceptively friendly tones, ‘Fran, you know you can trust me.’ I thought about all the things he’d said to Michael about my ‘jazz hands’ ents and culture department and buttoned my mouth. I’d sooner trust Mugabe. Isabelle Langley-Gardiner had been banging on about the horrors of parenthood for twenty minutes before I realized that I hadn’t taken in a single word of what she was saying. I was transfixed by Nellie, who was tapping away at her BlackBerry to our left. She looked outrageous. Slim, groomed and perfect in a black cashmere jumper dress with exquisite tan boots and two small diamond studs in her ears. She was wearing a strong fifties power fragrance, and I imagined Michael inhaling it on her neck. The thought made me long to garrotte her with my tights. The only mercy was that she and Alex showed no signs of having met. At least Michael wasn’t at the meet-my-friends stage with her. When I snapped back to the present I discovered that Alex had started setting up the camera to interview Isabelle himself. ‘Er, Alex, I can take it from here, thanks,’ I said. He stepped away from the tripod. ‘Sorry, Fran, I was just trying to help,’ he muttered, and arranged himself on to a leather armchair as if he were in a painting. I couldn’t deny it, he was beautiful in a sort of thin, aristocratic way. ‘What kind of set-up are you aiming for?’ he asked interestedly. I bristled and resisted the urge to wallop him with the tripod. ‘Simple, businesslike and tight on her face,’ I replied briskly. ‘We’re interested in what Isabelle has to say, not how the room’s furnished. We can get some shots of the club later.’ ‘Not too close to my face!’ Isabelle trilled, winking at Alex with one of her mad eyes. I ignored her. Nellie was now on the phone and had walked off to the end of the vast day room. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but I could tell, from the way she wiggled her hips, that she was talking to a man. I excused myself to go to the toilet so that I could walk past her and eavesdrop. ‘Yes, but your mum thinks I’m the best girlfriend you’ve ever had!’ she was squealing. Dammit! Michael’s mother would never have said that about me. When we’d driven down to see her the first time I’d had visions of her throwing her arms round me, crying, ‘You’re the daughter I always wanted,’ and inviting me to bake scones with her while Michael and his dad smoked pipes and tinkered with classic sports cars in the garage. Instead she’d merely asked me to take my shoes off because they were muddy and gone back to her newspaper. Why would any mother want their son to be shacked up with a girl who had muddy shoes, crap handbags and an unfor
tunate reliance on toilet humour? Nellie was every mother’s dream daughter-in-law. Freeing myself briefly from the womb-crushing trousers, I sat on the toilet and thought idly that a little gin and tonic would take the edge off things very nicely. Back outside, I was in no way surprised to discover the camera running and the interview in progress. Alex, in headphones, one hand on the camera, was chatting away animatedly to Isabelle, who was delighted by his attention. The Mother Teresa of Chelsea, I thought bitterly, as Alex asked a devastatingly brilliant question about something to do with egalitarianism. ‘Pushy little bugger.’ I spun round. It was Nellie, murmuring in my ear. Was this a moment of solidarity? An imperceptible nod in Alex’s direction confirmed that it was. Was Nellie Daniels trying to be my friend? ‘I have a colleague just like him. The moment I turn my back he’s all over my clients,’ she whispered conspiratorially. I smiled awkwardly. ‘I want to punch him in the testicles.’ Nellie folded her arms and leaned against the wall next to me. It was Youth Dew she was wearing, I realized. I bet Michael loved it. She whispered, ‘When you were in the toilet he said that he had recently taken over your job. I’m presuming that’s not true?’ ‘The fucker! I just had a long period of sickness and he grabbed my place on the election team,’ I said. ‘Galling, hon.’ I looked nervously at Alex. What was particularly annoying was that I hadn’t planned to press record; I was simply going to point the camera at Isabelle and let her think it was on. That way there was no chance of any tapes being found. Nellie’s Youth Dew wafted over me like opium. Intoxicated, I decided to start digging, ‘Us girls need to get married off quickly before these pushy little shits make us redundant,’ I said in a faux-conspiratorial voice. She smiled. ‘I’m working on it, trust me!’ I felt dizzy. ‘Go on.’ ‘Well, it’s early days but I’m just madly in love! It’s one of those awful ones when you know you should slow down but you just can’t …’ She was grinning uncontrollably. I gave her a lame thumbs-up, feeling as if my stomach was falling out of my privates. ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Er, well, actually, yes, there is a man in my life,’ I heard myself saying. What the fuck? ‘His name’s Duke.’ Great, Fran. ‘Now that is a rully cool name, babe! Good work! And is he as fabulous as his name suggests?’ I thought of Duke Ellington who had last night ambushed my foot as I slept. ‘He’s quite passionate,’ I replied. I scuttled off to Alex to stop the filming. His face was flushed and happy. ‘What a great interview!’ gushed Isabelle, her mad eyes even madder. ‘You’ve got a really brilliant colleague here, Frances!’ she tinkled. ‘He’ll be running ITN before the year’s out!’ I tried not to make eye contact with Alex. ‘Ah, not at all. Isabelle’s a star!’ he said. Nellie caught my eye and grimaced behind her folder. I smiled reluctantly, thinking that I rully didn’t need an alliance with my ex’s new girlfriend. But just for a moment, as I watched Isabelle fling her arms ecstatically around Alex, it felt comforting. ‘Thanks so much for doing this, Fran,’ Nellie said. She was so controlled, so measured, so powerful. Once more, her long slim hand was extended towards me. I took it, wondering when it had first held Michael’s. And I knew I had to see her again. ‘I’ll call you,’ I babbled. ‘I’ll let you know when this is going out … and in the meantime we should talk about your other clients, see if there’s any stories there.’ ‘Yup, sure. Let’s have lunch next week to discuss, yuh? Or see you at Meditation on Wednesday?’ ‘Oh, no,’ I replied. ‘I can’t, I have a date.’ ‘Really?’ said Alex, putting the camera bag down. ‘Rully?’ said Nellie, who thought I was seeing someone called Duke. ‘Ha-ha! I like to call them dates still!’ I trilled at Nellie, and manhandled Alex out of the building. ‘Keeps the romance alive!’ I yelled through the door. ‘So, tell all, Fran,’ Alex said, as I struggled to hoist the camera and tripod bags on to my shoulders. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘Ah, just doing a bit of casual dating,’ I said airily. Alex stared at me. ‘Good for you,’ he said eventually. ‘Well, I’m sure Michael hasn’t been wasting his time.’ Alex gave me an impassive smile and walked off to the main road. ‘I hope I was of use today,’ he said, jumping into a taxi. ‘Just shout if you need help.’ I crumpled on to the camera bag as he sped off. So Michael would find out I was dating. I couldn’t decide how I felt about that. On the one hand, if this three-month separation was just a sabbatical during which he could knob Nellie Daniels, then it would do no harm for him to know that I was in high demand. But if, as I feared, he had never intended us to get back together after the separation – and was as into Nellie as she said he was – the news of my dating activities would give him an easy excuse to get rid of me completely. At least he hadn’t introduced Nellie to Alex yet. And if I didn’t get these trousers off soon, I’d be rendered infertile. When I’d taken the camera back to the office I found myself with twenty minutes to spare before my pre-Brit Awards meeting. I opened up a Word document to jot down some brilliant, show-stopping ideas. Staring at the blank page, I pondered how badly Nellie’s attempt at solidarity had thrown me. In my haste to write her off as an evil posh bitch, I’d failed to consider the possibility that she might actually be a decent human being. I miss you so much, Michael Slater, I wrote. It’s driving me completely insane not being able to talk to you. I miss the sound of your voice and the confusion in your eyes when you wake up. I even miss our morning-breath snogs. And then: I just pretended to your girlfriend that I am going out with my cat. You’d have found this funny once. When I felt the familiar heat round my eyes I got up from my desk, left the office and jogged round the corner to the Apple Tree for a little gin to take the edge off my sadness. Chugging it guiltily at the bar I noticed that I was by no means the only smartly dressed Londoner indulging in a stiff one. So this was how the high-flyers dealt with days that felt like a load of bum. I felt pleasingly cool and relaxed as I minced back into the office on my high heels. That was, until Dave’s hand fell on my shoulder as I turned into Grays Inn Road. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Fran?’ he asked. I bristled. ‘Nothing. Why are you manhandling me?’ Dave sighed. ‘Mid-afternoon drinking won’t solve anything, you fucking doofus. I should know. Please, let’s sit down and sort you out. You mustn’t lose it, Franny, you’ve way too much going for you.’ He looked me up and down. ‘And why are you dressed like a prostitute?’ ‘Piss off, Dave.’ I walked round him and tried to carry on up Grays Inn Road but he grabbed my arm. ‘GET OFF!’ I shouted. ‘Oh, will you shut up?’ he said. ‘Franny, you’re acting like a fanny. You’ve got to stop this, kid, because if you don’t you’ll get completely out of control. First you stalk Michael’s new burd and start dressing like a tosser, and now you’re making up fake shoots and sneaking off for a fucking drink mid-afternoon. I thought the point of these three months was to sort yourself out and get Michael back. Wake up, Fran. Get a grip.’ Dave had a hand on each of my arms and he’d stopped shouting. ‘OK,’ I said briefly, and shook myself free. ‘Fucking Glaswegian cunt,’ I muttered under my breath. I had a hot date with a mad philosopher called James on Wednesday; I didn’t need Dave. But he had upset me, I couldn’t deny it. As I swaggered back to work and into my Brit Awards meeting, I smarted. Just as I walked into the building, my phone buzzed in my bag. I bristled, expecting it to be some patronizing admonishment from Dave. But it wasn’t. It was from a number that my phone didn’t recognize but my broken heart most certainly did. Michael. Michael who must have just found out that I was dating. I miss you Franny. So much. There isn’t a day when I don’t wonder if I’ve made a massive mistake. Xxxxx NO. ABSOLUTELY NO NO NO NO NO. DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT REPLYING.

  Sender: Leonie Mob 07111 996945 Message centre: +447999100100 Sent: 08 Feb 2010 23:58:01 Fannybaws do not text him back. That is an order. Sender: Dave Mob 07222 444333 Message centre: +447999100100 Sent: 09 Feb 2010 00:05:23 I FUCKING MEAN IT Sender: Leonie Mob 07111 996945 Message centre: +447999100100 Sent: 09 Feb 2010 00:07:01 Confirm you aren’t planning
to reply or I’ll send Stefania round Sender: Leonie Mob 07111 996945 Message centre: +447999100100 Sent: 09 Feb 2010 00:09:16 HELLO? Sender: Dave Mob 07222 444333 Message centre: +447999100100 Sent: 09 Feb 2010 00:20:55 Chapter Twenty-two

  Date two: James … OK. That’s Nietzsche covered … Who else was there? I flipped through the pocket guide to philosophy that I’d bought last night. Oh, that’s right, Hegel. Hegel was the dude who thought that human existence was moving towards perfection. I laughed to myself despairingly, thinking that Hegel couldn’t have seen Internet dating looming ahead in his perfect future. I was fast reaching the conclusion that you were as likely to find perfection on the Internet as you were to find buggery classes at the Women’s Institute. I tried to straighten my now frizzy fringe with the aid of a lukewarm finger. There was a heavy rainstorm raging outside so it had decided I was lost somewhere on the equator and had stuck itself to my forehead like … well, like blonde pubes. I was not happy. This was the second time in a fortnight that I’d waited in terror for a random man to arrive. Why the hell was I doing this? Date Two, James, was a philosophy tutor at King’s College London. I still couldn’t decide whether or not I found him attractive. In his picture, he had a honking nose and a very craggy brow, plus he was wearing distinctly academic glasses. I kept imagining him cramped over a 1950s typewriter in a small dark office, knocking out angry poetry and pausing only to howl like a dog at suitably dramatic moments. His appeal was definitely not of the let-me-rip-your-clothes-off-and-sit-on-your-face school but those men were more Leonie’s thing and, besides, he had intelligence. You’re an impressive young lady, he’d written a few days ago after I’d spent twenty minutes searching GreatLitaryQuotes.com for something clever to say in response to one of his emails. I must say I’m getting a bit depressed with meeting girls on this site who say they ‘read’ when actually they’re talking about chicklit. Ha-ha, yes, fucking terrible stuff that chicklit! I’d replied, my eyes running over the shelves and shelves of it that I’d devoured since Michael had left. I could start a mobile chicklit library with that lot. I’d travel round the suburbs of London with a chicklit gypsy caravan and knock out books for 50p to miserable stay-at-home mums who’d read the sex scenes over and over in an attempt to bring back the memory of carnal embrace. I’d wear an ethnic scarf in my hair and keep the money in my knickers. James was now ten minutes late. I got out my phone to Wikipedia a few more philosophers and heard the sound of high heels approaching me as it loaded up. I ignored it: I wasn’t here to meet women. But then the high heel noise stopped at my table and a male voice said, ‘Hi. You must be Frances.’ It was craggy James. I scanned down quickly for a huge bottom – which he didn’t have – but I did discover the source of the high-heel noise. James was wearing cowboy boots. Not only was he wearing cowboy boots but he was wearing them tucked into tight black jeans. With a Pink Floyd T-shirt and a leather jacket. Not a nice retro leather jacket or even a vague, sloppy academic’s leather jacket: it was a jacket designed to be worn by a man who rode a Harley Davidson with a horned helmet. Oh, and somewhere between the moment when his photo had been taken and now, he’d dyed his hair platinum blond and parted it at the side. In fact, our hairstyles were very similar. ‘Oh, hello,’ I said brightly, standing up to kiss him on the cheek. He held out his hand and leaned away from me. ‘Er, let’s start with a handshake, yeah? I don’t understand why people are always kissing each other when they’ve just met.’ Fuck, he even had sideburns. Bleached ones. ‘Oh, sorry!’ I said, flustered. ‘I know what you mean. It’s like people who put kisses at the end of emails and text messages when they’ve only just met you. Why do people do that?’ James paused a minute. ‘Yes, I agree. It betrays a sad need for intimacy, doesn’t it.’ Aha! This was my chance to drop a fat one. ‘Yah,’ I said, in a scatty academic kind of way. ‘But I suppose that in our godless Kierkegaardian universe that sort of need is inevitable.’ James raised an eyebrow. ‘That sounds rather like Wikipedia to me, Fran. Why do women do this before they go on dates with me? Do you all think I don’t know what you’re doing? Kierkegaardian universe indeed!’ He smiled unkindly. ‘What are you drinking?’ I was speechless. I wanted to tell James to shove his drink up his philosophical anus. But I stayed, asking politely for a gin and slimline, because I was weak and a retard. The pub was full of fringe-theatre types knocking back pints of continental lager before going upstairs to watch a piece of performance art called Pain, Sex, Birth. I presumed it was about a day in the life of a vagina and wondered if I should ask James to buy tickets. That, surely, would be enough to end this hellish rendezvous. I checked my phone, just in case by any remote chance Michael had texted me again. My friends had strictly forbidden me to reply to him and – to my absolute amazement – I’d actually obeyed. Thus far. Their reasoning was that I needed to complete their ridiculous challenge before contacting him; mine was that the news of my dating had clearly made him jealous, and if jealousy was a tool that I could use, I’d damn well use it. Sitting here waiting for a platinum twat in cowboy boots to return from the bar reminded me all the more astringently of how much I wanted Michael back. ‘So why are you Internet dating, then?’ James asked, as he arrived back at the table with drinks. He tucked his bizarre blond hair behind his ear and looked as if he didn’t care much about my answer. I thought about his question. What I wanted to say was ‘I am dating online because the love of my life wants a three-month break from me and I’m stalking his new girlfriend and going on these dates to keep my friends happy and make him jealous because no one else will have me. Will you love me, James, will you – will you?’ but instead I muttered something insipid, like ‘Well, I’m single because I’m not going out with someone.’ ‘I exist so therefore I am,’ he said, nodding sagely. ‘Yes!’ I tittered, despairing. Why was I sitting here with this withered scrotum of a man? I swigged my gin and tried a mini belch in case that persuaded him to abandon the date. He winced but remained. ‘I am a vegetarian, of course,’ he announced, an hour or so later. ‘Oh, right. I’m not. I eat meat with the blood dribbling down my chin. I love meat so much I have to eat it every few hours.’ Surely that would work. James merely nodded slowly. ‘You don’t love yourself very much, do you?’ ‘James, are you a philosophy lecturer or a crap psychology student?’ I asked irritably. ‘At last, the real Frances,’ he said. ‘Your vulnerability is beautiful.’ Right, that’s it, I thought grimly. As soon as this is over, I’m texting Michael back. Enough is enough. At the end of the night, by which time I was wasted, I got up to shake his hand again. I felt weak with relief. But as I did, he grabbed my hand, yanked me over to him, hooked an arm round my neck and whispered roughly, ‘I have to kiss you. Right now. You are the essence of sex and pain.’ Stunned, I looked on in the third person as I wrapped my arms round this horrid spectacle of a man and snogged his face off. Chapter Twenty-three