Date five: Martin I rolled up my jeans to expose two ankles so white that they were practically see-through. They seemed almost fluorescent on the plastic-backed tartan rug that Mum had left in my flat after a horrible drunk picnic a few summers ago. The weather had delivered. It was a beautiful spring day, warm, green and brisk. Perky daffodils circled the trees and the first birds of the year twittered uncertainly in the unexpected heat. I took my sunglasses out of my bag and pondered the date ahead. After Martin’s last email – I look forward to our picnic with wild anticipation – I had realized I was in the hands of a man who possessed either a lot of irony or none at all. He would be either mad or magnificent. I prayed fervently for the former. I glanced at Kenwood House rising up behind me, then turned back to appreciate the Arcadian bowl of grass, trees and lake that spread out calmly before me. It was a beautiful place to have a date. When I’d first moved to London I had often envisaged myself right here with a lover who would put a diamond on my finger as we gambolled like lambs in the dappled light of a beech tree. In my vision the man had worn white linen and he’d laid out a beautiful champagne picnic to celebrate our engagement. He was a delicate yet masculine man of classical good looks. Clearly, Martin – who was now stomping towards me with a gigantic wicker hamper – had had a similar dream. Unfortunately, he was an enormous tank of a man with classical bad looks. Like a perversion of my pastoral romantic dream, he was wearing a vast linen suit, which even had a canary yellow handkerchief frothing over in the breast pocket, and a straw fedora, which sat awkwardly, rather than jauntily, on his head. Where the hell was his coat? This was not the outfit for a picnic in the windy spring sunshine! In spite of his lack of coat he was sweating profusely. And I wasn’t bloody surprised, given the size of the hamper: it was big enough to accommodate a string quartet. Here we go again, I thought sadly, wondering what would happen if I got up and ran. I was reasonably sure he wouldn’t catch me but I didn’t want to be struck off the dating website for being nasty so I sat still and rolled my jeans back down. ‘HI, MARTIN!’ I shouted enthusiastically. He arrived next to me, put down the basket and removed his hat. ‘Frances, hello,’ he boomed grandly. ‘Martin Spencer-Hartley. A pleasure.’ ‘Nice to meet you. I can’t believe you’ve brought a hamper! That’s wicked!’ I said enthusiastically. Why was I talking like a teenager? He paused and wiped a slick of forehead sweat on to his handkerchief. A large expanse of white hairy belly was visible through the gap caused by his straining shirt buttons. Martin wasn’t fat, exactly, he was just … massive. All over. His hands were larger than my head. He bore more than a passing resemblance to Pavarotti, actually, but little resemblance to the picture I had seen online. ‘I stopped at Fortnum and Mason en route from Fulham and bought refreshments,’ he said eventually. I waited for an ironic twinkle in his eye but there was none. It was becoming increasingly clear that this man was taking himself seriously. I glanced at the hamper, not without excitement. The date was already a write-off but there was at least some good cheese to be had! He opened the hamper with a flourish. And what was inside made me want to cry. Not with joy, or even with laughter, but with pity. And vicarious embarrassment. Martin had obviously ordered his hamper online. I knew this because on top there was a large receipt, saying ‘Thanks for ordering with hamperkings.co.uk! Enclosed is your discounted Fortnum and Mason Christmas Hamper! We draw your attention to sell-by dates!’ Martin snatched away the receipt. Underneath, I’m afraid to confirm, there were two Christmas puddings, an assortment of pickles, a bottle of warm champagne, and spice sachets for mulled wine. There was a box of amaretti and a large panettone and – particularly useful for a spring picnic – a tin of goose fat. There was no checked cloth, no shining cutlery, no sandwich selection, no smoked salmon. There were probably some currants in the Christmas pudding but that was as close to strawberries and cream as we were likely to get. A horrible silence descended as we stared at Martin’s lie. I had to say something fast. This man – who clearly wasn’t any of the things he’d said he was – had been carrying a massive, disastrous, out-of-date, knocked-off Christmas hamper from God only knew where. He must want to top himself. ‘Oh, good, we can have an early Christmas,’ I faltered, thinking that we could at least try to eat some panettone and drink the champagne. But Martin was utterly silent, staring in paralysed horror at the hamper’s contents. I felt desperately sorry for him. All that email bravado, all that chivalrous masculinity, that big boomy voice and … this. ‘Tell you what, I need to nip to the Ladies. How’s about I pick us up a couple of ice creams on the way back?’ I said brightly. Martin said nothing. I went. Sitting on the toilet, I tried to think up a way of improving the situation but I couldn’t. I started writing a message to Leonie to make myself laugh a bit but I knew there was nothing to say: it was just total mortification for poor old Martin. And so, a few minutes later, when I walked back to the lawn, I was in no way surprised to find that there was a hamper but no Martin on my checked picnic rug. I scanned around me. Just as he disappeared out of view I spotted him, a large white shape running at full tilt into the woods. Chapter Thirty-five
FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM FREDDY! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!
Well then our date is confirmed. I am excited! Most girls off the Internet want to know if I have long-term plans to start a family; you want to know if I like 80s rap. I think I’m in love with you. Actually, I’m not. You have a foul mouth and terrible taste in men by all accounts. What the fuck do you mean he brought an out-of-date Christmas hamper? I don’t believe you. No one would do that. Oh my God, maybe they would. Tell me more. ‘VELCOME!’ Stefania hissed, as I tried to slide unobtrusively into the back of Meditation. ‘I am delighted you have returned to Meditation as you come close to the conclusion of your dates!’ ‘Ssh,’ I said, embarrassed. I was thirty seconds late and the room had fallen silent in anticipation of Stefania’s preamble. They goggled at me. I threw my bag into the corner, straightened my dress and sat on a chair near the back, closing my eyes and stretching my neck from left to right. A finger jabbed me from the right. ‘HI, BABE!’ I opened my eyes again. Nellie. For once it was genuinely nice to see her. The Daniels as a friend was a lot better than The Daniels as a foe. I smiled sideways at her. ‘Hey. Thanks for not ignoring me.’ She batted me away. ‘Hon, I told you, I’m soooo happy to have found another stalker. I was stalking Michael’s ex-girlfriend last night and I just couldn’t stop giggling. We’re two of a kind!’ I looked wistfully at her impeccable white tailored shirt and super-smart high-waisted jeans, and knew we were nothing of the sort. I was wearing a shabby old dress that Leonie had rejected three years ago and there was a hole in my tights. But I enjoyed the warmth of her greeting. And, most importantly, she wasn’t making the sex with my ex-boyfriend. ‘OK, I vant you to close your eyes and try to relax,’ Stefania crooned. ‘Let us start viz a body scan. Start at ze top of your head. Are zere tense muscles zere? Let zem go …’ Afterwards I munched a vegan quiche and watched Nellie talking to some of the other media bitches. Back on show, she seemed as she always had – possessed, commanding and completely in control. And yet she was in reality a puppy, hysterically overexcited about her Posh Fiancé and prone to the same mad stalking outbursts as I was. How funny life is, I thought, trying to identify a strange rubbery ingredient within the quiche. People were so rarely who they appeared to be on the outside. ‘I’m learning how much I compare other people’s outsides to my insides,’ Mum had said to me the other night after her AA meeting. ‘I’ve spent my whole life thinking I know what’s going on in other people’s heads but of course I don’t!’ It was a pretty good point. I picked up a little tablet of raw chocolate and popped it into my mouth. Urgh! Stefania was outstanding at raw chocolate but today’s offering was like crunchy turd. As I tried to remove it from my mouth as inconspicuously as possible, she arrived in front of me with her arms crossed. ‘Zis is not a good advert for my cooking, F
rances,’ she hissed. ‘Vhat are you doing?’ I wiped my lips. ‘I’m spitting out this chocolate. Have you tasted it? It’s terrible! You’re brilliant at this stuff, what went wrong?’ She reached over and put some in her mouth with a face of fury, then reached for the napkins and ejected it at high speed. ‘Zeus! Zis is TERRIBLE!’ She grabbed the plate and shoved it under the batique bedspread that was covering the table. ‘I offer you a full apology! And a refund!’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s fine. You must just have had a bad day.’ I pulled on my faded leather ankle boots and reached for my coat. Stefania didn’t reply. She had gone red. ‘Yes, I vas a bit preoccupied today,’ she said, with a strange expression. It hovered somewhere between embarrassed, secretive and excited. A slight blush played at the edges of her porcelain cheeks. I sat down again. ‘Er, what’s going on, Stefania?’ She pulled herself together, an imperceptible shift that closed me out. ‘Nozzing. I was just distracted today sinking about your eight dates. Zat is all.’ ‘Bollocks.’ I folded my arms. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘NOZZING, Frances. I shall see you tomorrow.’ ‘Aren’t we going to travel back home together?’ She coloured again, this time more deeply. Blushing suited her. ‘No, I have business to attend to.’ I was about to interrogate her further when Nellie bounded up, excitable and beaming, pawing my arm. ‘BABE! We so need to talk! I’ve got something rully exciting for you!’ Stefania escaped delicately. I made a mental note to watch for her return later. She was never busy in the evenings. Ever. ‘Sounds interesting,’ I said to Nellie. ‘Well, babe, here’s the thing. My Michael also works in PR …’ My eyebrows shot up. I would have put at least a grand on him working for a bank. ‘… and he has some clients who would be, let’s say, extremely interesting to you. He called me earlier, asking what your exact role was at ITN because he’s going to offer the project to your boss tomorrow.’ ‘Tell me more,’ I said, trying to sound excited. The chances of any ‘extremely interesting’ project being given to me at the moment were slim. But as soon as Nellie began to speak, I knew I wanted it. I didn’t just want it, I really, really wanted it. I listened to her with growing excitement and despair, knowing that this could make or break me, but keenly aware that it would take an act of God for Hugh to entrust it to me. Five minutes later, I stood up to leave. Nellie grabbed me and hugged me. ‘I just knew this was up your street, babe! When Dave told me about the way you always weed out the normal people in your stories … well, I just knew it was perfect for you!’ I smiled, touched. ‘Listen, babe, Michael’s going to ITN with the offer tomorrow and unless they’ve lost their minds they’ll say yes. So all we need to do then is convince them that you’re the man for the job! Should I get Michael to put in a good word?’ I shook my head sadly. ‘Nellie, I can’t lie – it sounds like my dream project but there is just no way on earth Hugh would let me do it. I’m in the doghouse with him at the moment.’ Nellie’s face fell. She really was very sweet, in spite of her toned legs and power fragrances and wall of shiny hair. ‘Trust me. He’ll give this job to one of the old-timers. But thank you for thinking of me. It was really kind of you.’ ‘Oh, babe … I hope you’re wrong. Well, I’d better scoot. I’m meant to be meeting Portia downstairs for a bottle of wine ten minutes ago.’ ‘Portia?’ ‘Yeah, you know – the blonde woman who was sitting closest to Stefania? She’s the VP Worldwide Media Relations for Tower Media. I bloody want them on my books, babe.’ That was the difference between Nellie and me, I thought later, as I cobbled together a store-cupboard meal of canned sweetcorn and a half-defrosted beefburger. Duke Ellington was laying into his Tesco Finest rabbit terrine with gusto, casting occasional pitying looks at my student dinner. I believed in my career, and to a certain extent in myself, but I just didn’t have Nellie’s killer instinct. I was far happier sharing a dinner table with my evil cat than I was plying good contacts with expensive wines in exclusive West London clubs. Back in December when I’d asked Hugh about joining the politics team he’d just laughed in my face, yet Alex had come in and within three weeks had been given the frigging election special to produce. ‘I’m a failure,’ I told Duke Ellington, as I fired up my computer. He gave me an affirmative miaow. ‘Shut up!’ He started purring. You have two new messages, my homepage told me. With a tiny but not insignificant buzz of excitement, I clicked through, delighted to see that one was from Freddy. Our emails over the last few days had been deliciously enjoyable. He really seemed to get me, this dude, and I felt good emailing him. Hello again Fran. I agree: I do look like an iconic film star in my photo. Yes. But you’ve got the decade wrong, of course. It’s more 1950s, non? Anyway, I am on my way back to London in a couple of days and looking forward to Sunday. Here is what we are doing. 1. We are going to see my favourite mad transgender folk singer at the Roundhouse. 2. Then I am going to feed you tapas in a little place by Mornington Crescent. 3. Then we will go home in opposite directions and I will stare at my silent phone for weeks, wondering what happened. Or we will go for a dirty hump on Primrose Hill. Or maybe we will just have an awkward kiss/hug loaded with the promise of more next time. I sat back, grinning. ‘This is quite exciting!’ I whispered. Duke Ellington miaowed again. ‘He likes the sound of you, although God knows why.’ Duke Ellington marched over and allowed me to stroke him, then spun round at lightning speed and scragged my hand. I typed with my left hand: Sounds ideal. ME LIKE TAPAS. The cat just attacked me again. Cunt. Yours, injured, Fran X ‘Little scrote,’ I said, as I got up to wash my hand. I was smiling. I liked Freddy. It felt easy with him. A date with a truly nice chap just before I saw Michael would give me just enough confidence to be able to lay things out to him on my terms. My beautiful Michael Slater with his slate grey eyes. Michael, who slept curled up like a prawn. Michael, whom I admired more than any other man I’d ever met. Jesus, I honestly didn’t know how I’d got through nearly three months of not seeing him. But he was going to have to give me answers. Good answers. And some things were going to have to change. ‘This time round Michael and I are going to have more fun,’ I told Duke Ellington. There was a bunch of daffodils in one of Mum’s jugs on the table. Spring was here. Michael and I would start again. The world was still turning. I was OK. ‘Will you sodding well stop that?’ I shouted at Leonie. She was snogging Alex, with tongues, about a metre from me. ‘This is Gin Thursday! It’s not a bloody sex show!’ Alex, looking thoroughly intoxicated, pulled away from her reluctantly and went a bit red. ‘Sorry. I just can’t keep my hands off her. You’d understand if you were male.’ His long thin face was shiny and beaming, and his suspiciously clear-looking glasses were wonky. I smiled despairingly as Leonie giggled and grabbed his hand, straightening her cardigan. She rubbed a little bit of her scarlet lipstick off his chin but left the rest on, winking at me. Alex was so overwhelmed by the situation he resembled a small child. It was funny to be feeling fond of Alex. But the transformation in his behaviour at work really had been radical. I’d been allocated to help his team three afternoons a week (albeit grudgingly) by Hugh and I knew that the things Alex was sending my way were producer’s jobs, rather than the humble research and guest-booking I’d been quite happy to do. Only three hours before, he’d forwarded my Nick Clegg VT proposal directly to Hugh with a note, saying, ‘This is from Fran. I think it’s excellent. I wouldn’t change a thing – do you agree?’ Hugh had replied simply, ‘Yeah.’ It would take a lot longer to win back his respect. Nellie’s Michael had arrived at three o’clock and left at five forty-five, but Hugh had said nothing to me. He’d merely called all of the politics producers into his office after Michael had left. There was no bloody chance of me getting my hands on that gig. ‘What do you want to drink, Fannybaws?’ Dave asked, as he came back in. He’d been outside on the phone for the last ten minutes and had come back in looking distinctly gooey. It was like being trapped in a restaurant on Valentine’s night in this bloody place! I should have made my Freddy date tonight. ‘Er, Coke, please. Was that Freya?’ I asked
. ‘Nope. Stefania. She’s not coming tonight.’ ‘Eh? What were you talking about all that time?’ Since when did Dave and Stefania talk on the phone? Dave didn’t answer. I watched him go to the bar, feeling a little unnerved. What was with the gooey face? Alex and Leonie were clearly aware of my shift in concentration because they’d started snogging again. ‘Pack it in!’ I hissed at them. Leonie raised a V-sign at me and continued, but Alex said, ‘Sorry, Fran. You’re right. Although you were just as bad when you met Michael,’ he added slyly. I smiled. ‘Fair dos, Alex. After all, she is pretty awesome.’ Leonie nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, I am.’ We all burst out laughing. Then Alex whispered, ‘Tell her!’ in a very loud, theatrical and unwhispery way. Leonie slapped him. ‘Alex! No!’ ‘Leonie has something to tell you,’ Alex announced. He seemed liable to burst. ‘Come on, Leonie. What’s up?’ Dear God, they weren’t … ? ‘Ah. Well, I’ve been wanting to tell you this for ages but I got a bit shy.’ I laughed. ‘Shy? The girl who talks about bum sex with complete strangers is telling her best friend she felt a bit shy? Don’t make me laugh!’ Alex tittered, straightening out his blazer which was sitting rather lopsidedly over his expensive graffiti T-shirt. Leonie was actually blushing now. ‘Leonie? What the hell’s going on?’ She blushed even harder. ‘Well?’ Alex couldn’t bear it any more. ‘SHE’S WRITING A BOOK!’ he screamed, then clasped her even more tightly to him in the manner that a toddler throws his arms around his mother’s leg. It was a truly hilarious spectacle. Hang on. ‘A book? Oh, my God! About what?’ ‘Um. Sex,’ she said bashfully. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Sex. I’m writing a book about sex. In fact, that’s a lie. I’ve written a book about sex. It’s finished. It’s done. But today I got an agent who wants to send it out to a load of publishers. This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me! And it’s all thanks to you!’ I blinked. ‘Um, I’m glad to be of service but how is this connected to me? Did you drug me and collect all of my sex secrets? Not that I really have any,’ I added. ‘When you got back from Kosovo in 2008 you told me I should write a book about sex. Like a manual or something. So I did! I’ve been writing it for the last two years!’ ‘Wow!’ I said, genuinely thrilled. ‘So that’s why you shagged so many blokes in that time? Oh, no! Sorry! Actually, Alex, she didn’t have sex with anyone! She was chaste.’ He seemed remarkably unfazed. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. His normally reedy voice sounded full to bursting with happiness. ‘I know she loves me.’ They had a private moment and I looked away, embarrassed. The energy between them was intense. The last time I’d seen anything as tangible was when Michael had first arrived back from Kosovo. And now here was Leonie, having the same thing with his best friend. Love moved in funny ways. ‘OK, break it up,’ I said gently, after a few seconds. ‘Leonie, my darling friend, I am so proud of you. This is absolutely amazing. What brought this on? Well, apart from me telling you that you should do it.’ She dropped her eyes modestly to her hands. ‘I’ve always wanted to write a book,’ she said simply. It was true. It had saddened me that she’d abandoned her wonderful talents with wordsmithery and spent the last nine years charity mugging. ‘But I started charity mugging as a tide-me-over and I met so many people who hated their jobs, I just thought, well, I didn’t want to get on the treadmill. And then you joked about a sex book when you met Michael and you were so happy and glowing and really beginning to go somewhere with your life and I started to feel like a loser …’ Alex put his arm round her and kissed the side of her head. ‘You’ve never been a loser,’ I said quietly. ‘Ever.’ Dave arrived back at the table. ‘Leonie’s written a book about sex!’ I cried. Dave didn’t turn a hair. ‘Of course she has. I can’t think of a better person to write one,’ he said drily, smiling at Leonie and passing her a gin. ‘Good work, kid – what sort of sex book is it?’ ‘It’s a sort of contemporary housewife’s manual,’ she said. ‘Lots of fifties-style diagrams and humorous anecdotes about baking cakes afterwards but with the kind of graphic detail you’d only get in a sex book now.’ I began to giggle. ‘So, essentially it’s filth wrapped up in a circular skirt and an apron?’ ‘Yep. That’s the one.’ ‘Photos or pictures?’ ‘Oh, pictures, lots of them. All nineteen-fifties style.’ ‘It sounds amazing! Who illustrated it for you?’ ‘Um, I did.’ There was another stunned silence. ‘This is amazing! I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!’ She blushed again. ‘I know, I’m sorry. But I was scared. I didn’t think it’d get anywhere. But this agent reckons it could sell. Can we not talk about it now? I’m embarrassed.’ Alex got up, nearly exploding out of his skin. ‘This calls for champagne! Oh, are you two still off the booze?’ he added, looking at Dave and me. I turned to Dave. Were we? He nodded. ‘Just for today,’ he said. Alex kissed Leonie again and trotted off to the bar. ‘Stop it,’ Leonie said, catching my smirk. ‘Sorry. It’s just so odd, though. It’s like he’s on drugs. You’ve completely changed him.’ ‘I honestly think he’s always been like this. The closed-book thing is just a front, Franny, he’s quite a lost soul.’ ‘Well, I hope he’s not too lost. You need a boyfriend, not a wreck.’ ‘I know. But, trust me, I have a boyfriend.’ The three of us burst out laughing at this completely improbable sentence. ‘Now, how are you getting on with the Eight Date Deal?’ she said, brisk once more. Dave put his drink down and got a notebook out. ‘Stefania gave me this,’ he said, in response to my inquisitive look. I sighed. I was not enjoying this ‘Stefania and Dave = best friends for ever’ thing. ‘OK,’ I began wearily. ‘There’s a Trendy Person on Saturday called Benj. I’m meeting him on Brick Lane. It’s going to be a disappointment. He’ll be wearing spray-on trousers and probably a moustache.’ Dave sniggered. ‘We’ve had a bit of banter but he’s yet another clever-clever bloke full of witty quips and almost certainly no personality.’ They nodded. ‘And?’ Leonie said impatiently. I began to grin. ‘Well, actually, the next one is on Sunday and I think he’s a little bit ace. It’s that guy Freddy I mentioned.’ Dave glanced up briefly. ‘So you like this one, eh?’ he asked. ‘Yeah! I do! He looks like a film star! And he’s quite rude to me. Keeps me in my box. Y’know.’ Dave smirked. ‘Sounds like a wise man. And film-star looks too! Quite a catch, by all accounts, Fannybaws.’ ‘Seconded!’ Leonie said. ‘I like the sound of him. What are you going to do? Will you ask him to pop it in, do you think?’ ‘STOP IT! I AM GETTING BACK TOGETHER WITH MICHAEL! But that doesn’t stop me going on a date with Nice Freddy, though,’ I added impishly. ‘We’re going to a gig at the Roundhouse. Some folky transsexual’s singing. And then he’s force-feeding me tapas and proposing a hard fuck on Primrose Hill.’ Dave sat back grinning. ‘He sounds pretty different from Michael, Fannybaws.’ I nodded guardedly. Alex was taking his change from the barman. ‘Do you promise you’re not discussing any of this with Alex?’ I whispered at Leonie. ‘Yes! Fran, I gave you my word.’ ‘Good. Thanks. Well, the ninety days is up in just under two weeks. You can talk about us all you like after that.’ She squeezed my hand. Later, when Leonie and Alex had resumed their mutual face-eating marathon, I sat at the bar with Dave, marvelling at how tiny and doll-like his bottle of Schweppes tomato juice looked in his hand. ‘You’ve got absolutely massive hands, Dave,’ I said absently. ‘You’ve got an absolutely massive arse, Fran,’ he replied. ‘Have NOT!’ ‘Aye, true. Anyway. This business with Michael. Are you serious about taking him back?’ He poured thick red juice from the toy bottle into his glass. It barely came to a third full and he was slightly dismayed. I poured mine into his glass. ‘Yes. I’ve missed him horribly.’ He took a sip. It left a big red semi-circle above his mouth, which I rubbed off with a tissue. ‘That’d better not have your snot on it,’ he said ominously. ‘Nope. You’re safe. Not a bogey in sight.’ ‘Why do you think Michael ended it in the first place, Fannybaws?’ I paused. I’d spent a lot of time trying to avoid this question. Because the truth of the matter was that I had no idea. Jenny had emailed
me a few days after the Smiths of Smithfield night, reiterating how much she hoped we’d get back together and how miserable Michael had been since we separated. I shook my head thoughtfully. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. I think something happened that day. Something really bad. You heard what Jenny said – he was going to propose. He had their grandmother’s ring. It wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment thing, Dave, he’d obviously planned it. He’d decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me and then … poof. It’s over. No contact for three months.’ Dave nodded. ‘I need to find out what happened that day and do everything I can to make whatever it is better. I’m willing to go to any lengths. Whatever needs changing, I’m prepared to do it. I want the ring. I want Michael. I want us back.’ Dave stirred his tomato juice, his face inscrutable. ‘Do you know anything about relationships?’ he asked eventually. I was taken aback. ‘Er … What?’ ‘Seriously, Fran. “I’m willing to go to any lengths”? Where’s your fucking self-respect?’ His face was darkening. He downed his tomato juice angrily and stared off over my shoulder. I waited for him to crack a smile but nothing happened. Confused, I cleared my throat. ‘I see. Well, I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you, Dave. And I’m sorry that my relationship doesn’t match up to the obviously perfect situation you have with Freya. But life isn’t always like that. Most women aren’t like her. Most of them are scared and unsure of themselves. I’m so sorry that I happen to be one of them.’ ‘You don’t know shit about Freya, Fran,’ he replied quietly. I gazed at his angry face, appalled. ‘What? Dave, what’s wrong?’ He toyed with his empty glass. ‘Actually, you’re right. I don’t know anything about Freya any more because you haven’t brought her out for as long as I can remember. Are you ashamed of us? Of me?’ Dave toyed with his glass a while longer, then put it down. ‘I wasn’t comparing you to Freya. I’m sorry.’ Dave had never been horrid to me in the entire history of our relationship. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Ah, fuck it. I’m going home.’ And he got up and walked out. I followed him out of the bar with my eyes, a big, angry man in a jumper with an old stripy shirt underneath. Trainers with holes in them. A face of thunder. Dave, a man I clearly didn’t understand as well as I’d thought. ‘I hate everyone,’ I told Duke Ellington, an hour later. Leonie and Alex, oblivious to my bizarre altercation with Dave, had continued to snog as if a nuclear bomb was about to hit the Three Kings so, shortly after Dave had stormed off, I’d followed suit. Duke Ellington and I were munching a Hawaiian pizza I’d picked up on the way and I was firing up my laptop in the desperate hope of a nice communication from Freddy. The last message I’d sent him had been five hours ago and I needed a fix. You have one new message, said my lurid pink homepage. I crossed my fingers. Freddy! Fran. You raving lunatic. I give up. Whatever. But I’m not giving up on Sunday. I’ll meet you outside the Morrisons petrol station, OK? If you’re really lucky I’ll buy you a microwavable pasty. I’ll be the one wearing a Phil Collins T-shirt and carrying an enormous bunch of flowers. Seriously, I can’t wait. You are properly awesome. Promise not to grope you during the gig. Freddy X I liked Freddy. A lot. ‘If it doesn’t work out with Michael, I’m jumping this bloke,’ I told Duke Ellington. He was wrestling with a piece of pepperoni and took no notice of me. I threw a dough ball at him and went back to my message. Chapter Thirty-six
Greatest Love Story of All Time Page 21
