by Adele Parks
There were three cardboard boxes set in the middle of the bed. Natalie instantly remembered that one box contained old photos and negatives from a pre-digital age, another was full of her books and the third was marked ‘miscellaneous’. She could take the photos out of the albums and reduce the space by seventy-five per cent. In fact, if she scanned the pics on to her Mac she wouldn’t have to hold on to many of them at all. The books could all go to a charity shop as in all honesty she rarely reread old books, it had been an indulgence to hang on to them as long as she had. It would be much better if someone else got the benefit. The third box demanded a little more attention.
Natalie sat on the bed and sifted through bundles of letters and birthday cards from friends and relatives, some of whom were still vibrant and a part of her life now, others long gone, not forgotten but not remembered as often as she perhaps should. There was a small box full of cheap fashion earrings. Natalie giggled as she pawed the shocking pink loops and the gaudy gold hoops. Nowadays she only ever wore the diamond studs that Neil had given her for her thirtieth birthday. She unearthed old business cards detailing her more junior positions and she found a hoard of invites to friends’ weddings and their children’s baptisms. There were loose keys but she had no idea what or where they unlocked any more. She found a small music box that played ‘Hey, Jude’ that had been given to her by an Italian she had once had a holiday romance with. Then, at the very bottom of the cardboard box, wedged between a tin of prehistoric make-up and some ancient copies of Just 17 magazine (the reasons she’d kept those were beyond her), Natalie spotted her Little Black Book. She let out an involuntary gasp of excitement.
Natalie had never kept a diary. Too busy living to bother recording or analysing but her Little Black Book had all the potency, secrecy and illicit pleasure that any diary could hold. Nina and Brian had given Nat the small black leather address book as a gift after she’d sat her A levels, just before she’d travelled to Sheffield to start her BA in Geography. Nina had already carefully copied down telephone numbers and addresses of the extended family and close family friends, just in case Nat ever needed to reach any one of them. Nina and Brian told Nat to fill the address book with the names and addresses of numerous new friends; they teased her, saying that no doubt soon the pages would be full of the names of new boyfriends as well. Nat followed their instructions with gusto for nearly a decade after the original purchase – until she’d met Neil, actually, when fidelity and technology had made the book obsolete.
Natalie couldn’t imagine writing down anyone’s address in a book now but nor could she imagine her BlackBerry ever creating such an overwhelming sense of sentimentality and joy. Natalie sniffed the book’s cover. It smelt of something more than leather. It evoked a feeling of possibility and youth. Suddenly Natalie was awash with memories of intense friendships, silly antics and heated debates with bright and intense women, beautiful and unsuitable men. The leather address book reminded her of occasions when she drank red wine in dingy bedsits and champagne on cold beaches. The book provoked unlimited recollections of sweaty nightclubs, blustery town centres and endless boxes of tissues.
She opened the Little Black Book. The pages were alive with names of friends, dear and distant, fleeting and steadfast, deeply missed, barely recalled. When they’d married, some of her friends had changed their names from the ones that were written in her neat hand and they’d almost all changed their addresses; a few had done so with such frequency she no longer knew where to send Christmas cards. Where was Debbie Hill nowadays? How had they ever lost touch? She had been such a sensational friend. What must she be up to now? Didn’t Nikki Davis emigrate to Canada? Not far enough, thought Nat ruefully as she remembered how gossipy the girl had been. Nikki Davis attracted trouble like a magnet attracts iron filings. Nat had hastily made friends with her in her first week at university, when everyone was simply desperate to talk to anyone; then Nat had spent approximately eight years trying to shake the woman off. Nat recalled some of Nikki’s catty comments about her dress sense and figure; she had a tongue that could slice paper! Nat quickly turned the page. Ohhh, Chloe Kemp, now she was a sweeter face to recall; what a giggle she used to be! Nat was pretty sure she’d moved to Singapore. Nat had got a postcard from her a few years ago but Chloe hadn’t given her address and Nat could never track her down. Perhaps Chloe had unearthed an old address book and acted on a whim by reaching out to Nat, a long lost pal.
Besides the names of her female friends, there were the details of the men friends who once had caused Nat’s heart and stomach to sink and flip by turn. Nat had had seven lovers before Neil. She was never quite sure if this was a shockingly huge amount or an embarrassingly meagre total; she’d never compared her score with anyone else, it was simply not the sort of thing she’d ever do. Nat knew that the details of each and every one of her ex-lovers were nestled in these pages; their addresses – email and postal – their telephone numbers and birth dates. She had always been quite scrupulous about recording this sort of thing. So many relationships never limped passed infancy because someone or other lost the scrap of paper where the all-important telephone number had been jotted. Nat was not prepared to take that sort of risk in her emotional life and used to carry her address book with her wherever she went. That’s why her friends had fondly christened it her Little Black Book. They’d tease her that it was crammed with hordes of names of men she’d got naked with. Nat had not minded the teasing and happily adopted the saucy rebranding of her address book. Although it wasn’t strictly accurate, it was fun. She had smiled enigmatically, rather enjoying the illusion that she might be capable of being casual with her heart like some sort of female Casanova. Of course, there had been other boyfriends, men she’d shared evenings with but not chemistry and men she never even bothered to upgrade from the title ‘acquaintance’.
In her own handwriting she saw the names Michael Young, Alan Jones, Richard Clark, Daniel McEwan, Matthew Jackson, the Hunk, aka Gary something or other – had she ever known? Lee Mahony. They all had a place. A point. Michael was her first love. Alan was her starter ‘marriage’ (not that they were married but they practically lived together at uni and when they left uni they shared a scabby rented flat). Richard was the one that got away. Daniel, the one she ran away from. Matthew, the one she never understood. Gary, her mindless fling. And, finally, Lee, her most passionate encounter.
Natalie read the names. Dusty angels and horny devils fluttered out of the pages. It was amazing. She’d all but forgotten that there was a time in her life when relationships were fleeting, unsettled, scary, exciting and finite. When sex was filthy, fun, flirty, unforgiving and urgent. As she read the names of long lost loves something flickered between her legs. Something that was at once thoughtful and lusty. Private and commonplace.
Natalie was surprised that her reaction to the names in her Little Black Book was so physical. It wasn’t as if she was lacking in that department. The sex she had with Neil was great. She always had an orgasm or, at least, she usually did. If she didn’t, she’d expediently and politely fake it and Neil would gratefully and politely pretend to believe that she’d had the real thing. Neither of them would ever want to hurt the other’s feelings. Their sex was consistent and caring. It was a mature response to, and manifestation of, their deep and devoted love. And sometimes it was just a quickie to get him to stop pestering her and go to sleep. Yes, admittedly, the sex they had was predictable, in the sense that it could be relied upon, but not in the sense that it was staid or dull. They sometimes went away for a weekend and made love three times. Not that such a score was likely if they stayed at home. But even if they stayed at home they varied positions and had sex in different rooms of the house. Actually, thinking about it now, it had been a while since they’d had sex anywhere other than in their bed; they’d done it on the sofa last Valentine’s Day. Hmmm. The memory was a good but distant one.
Maybe they had become a little too settled, prematurely middle-aged. It
wasn’t as though they were exhausted with the demands of childcare like so many of their friends. Natalie made a mental note that they ought to take advantage of their childfree state a little more. Not that they could still expect to be swinging from the chandeliers after so many years but maybe they ought to be shaking it up a little bit. It would be fun to feel some of the old magic again. At the very least if she sent some cheeky photos to his phone he might be temporarily distracted from his campaign to procreate. Or maybe not. Natalie tossed the address book back into the cardboard box and went downstairs. She was starving and she wondered what was for lunch.
10
Natalie stayed with her parents until mid-afternoon and then she returned to Chiswick and squandered the rest of the day mooching around shops that sold unnecessary but pretty things such as photo albums covered in diamanté love hearts, retro ceramic milk jugs and glossy coffee table books about designer shoes. Nat could never justify buying this sort of stuff for herself but she loved to endlessly finger the goodies on offer and would often purchase something as a gift for someone else. Today Nat bought an over-the-top floral shower cap for Neil’s sister, Ashleigh. They had developed a habit of sending one another daft gifts through the post for no other reason than the fun of writing a note that read, ‘I saw this and thought of you.’ Then she bought Neil a pair of Paul Smith cufflinks which had cartoon pictures of buxom women on them. He rarely wore shirts, a fact that Nat was aware of even as she handed over her debit card. She had been buying him a lot of tiny gifts recently. Bars of expensive organic chocolate, decent bottles of wine; she bought him a new sports bag last week and a pair of trainers the week before. Part of her – a deeply buried, difficult-to-examine part of her – felt disgustingly guilty that she wouldn’t give him what she knew he wanted most and so she’d got into the habit of buying little gifts instead. She knew it was hopeless. How could a chocolate bar compensate?
When she arrived home, Nat was surprised to find Neil surrounded by bags of groceries and bending over a cookbook. Her heart sank as she remembered the last time he cooked for her. Was he about to relaunch the ‘can we have a baby’ convo? She really couldn’t face it. It had been a busy week and what she’d been hoping for tonight was the two of them cuddling up in front of The X Factor, guzzling wine and eating crisps, hardly bothering with conversation beyond a grunted, half-hearted preference for one act above the other. The sort of warm, effortless night they’d enjoyed together forever – or had up until this last month at least. Recently, the time they spent together was spiked with a sense of mutual criticism and confusion. Nat longed for a rest from the unvoiced but palatable hostilities. In fact, she longed for them to stop altogether. But she was at a loss as to how to make things better.
Besides, frankly, since she’d discovered the Little Black Book she’d been feeling a tiny bit horny so she’d upgraded her perfect Saturday night in from grunting at the TV to grunting over something a little more physical. It would be amazing to reconnect on at least that level but the chances of them making love would be drastically reduced if he started on again about having a baby.
‘What’s all this?’ asked Natalie, as she put down the cardboard box full of photos on the table and pecked Neil on the cheek.
He pulled her into a huge hug. ‘We’re having a dinner party.’
‘What? When?’ Nat tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
‘Now. Well, in an hour and a half, to be exact,’ he said as he checked his watch and then turned back to the cookery book.
‘But why?’ asked Nat, stunned.
‘Why not?’ Neil replied with a beam. Natalie and Neil never threw dinner parties. They were occasionally invited to them but whenever they had to return the hospitality they preferred to take their friends to a restaurant and foot the bill. ‘I thought it would be fun,’ added Neil.
Natalie wondered if he’d been body-snatched. Couldn’t he remember that while neither of them were particularly diabolical cooks nor were they spectacular? They had both often agreed that devoting a whole day and evening to shopping, chopping, cooking, serving and clearing dinner was not a good use of time. Especially since the actual amount of conversation you could have at your own dinner party was inversely proportional to how successful the prepared dish was likely to be. She didn’t think it was fair that he kept changing his mind about things they’d decided on.
Neil continued, ‘Don’t worry, I have everything under control. I thought we’d kick off with a meze-style, no-cooking-required starter. Cured meats and salami, with pickled artichoke hearts and black olives served with some top-notch bread and unsalted butter. I picked it all up at the deli.’
‘Right.’ Maybe not body-snatched per se, maybe he’d undergone a Stepford Wife transformation.
‘And then I’ve opted for fish pie. It’s already prepared. I’m going to serve it with pink fir apple potatoes and crimson chard. I picked up the spuds and herbs from the farmers’ market after footie. What do you think?’
Natalie didn’t know what she thought. She wasn’t sure what crimson chard was. He’d been food shopping rather than sitting in the pub with Karl and Tim, that couldn’t be right.
‘Aren’t you full of surprises,’ she muttered. She knew sugar was good for shock so she reached for the bitter chocolate that was already broken into squares and sat in a small bowl. In fact Neil was surrounded by small bowls full of oil, sugar, chopped fruit and herbs. Men thought that these bowls were obligatory to the cooking process, it was clear he wasn’t planning on doing the washing up. Neil swiped at her hand.
‘Get off. That’s for the fondue we’re having for pudding. You’ll have to wait,’ he instructed cheerfully. Neil had mistaken Natalie’s shock for pleasant surprise and was clearly relishing the effect of his industry. He thought he’d impressed her; actually she was terrified by this changeling. Where was the Neil she knew and could predict?
‘Who’s coming?’ she asked.
‘Tim and Ali and Mick and Karen.’
‘Not Karl and Jen?’
‘No.’
‘Were they busy?’
‘Don’t know, I didn’t ask them. I asked Mick and Karen instead. Eight won’t fit round the table and we owe Mick and Karen.’
‘Do we?’
‘Yes, we went round there twice before the twins were born. Had you forgotten?’
Natalie had not forgotten but since the twins had been born she’d found Mick and Karen’s company less enticing than she used to. For three years the two couples had lived as nextdoor neighbours but Karen and Mick had moved out of the street once they’d decided to start a family. They’d moved to the suburbs as they’d argued that the Chiswick terrace was too cramped to accommodate more than a couple. Now they had four bedrooms and a garden but Nat couldn’t help thinking that what they’d gained in space, they’d sacrificed in soul. There were no shops, or cafés, or parks or galleries anywhere near Karen and Mick’s new home. Karen frequently pointed out that the commute to central London was only forty-five minutes on the overground, but in her more mischievous moments Nat couldn’t help but imagine there were a fair few delays on the journey home as people flung themselves on to the tracks at the thought of where they were heading. Besides, Nat didn’t agree that the terrace was too small for a family, there were two bedrooms. Karen and Mick could have managed in the short term and still had the comfort and support of living near their many friends in the tricky, early months of parenthood.
Nat was pretty sure the new parents did need support. Having twins, no matter how adorable they were to dress up, couldn’t be easy to handle. But it was hard to give support when Karen was weepy and nervous one moment, condescending and brash the next. Mick was no better; he now limited his conversation to a rather patronising patter which ran along a single theme, his unique brilliance as a dad. He’d opted to be a stay-at-home dad, ‘allowing’ Karen the ‘freedom’ to return to her career as a solicitor. Undoubtedly, he did know a thing or two about child rearin
g but Natalie found it wearing that not only did he insist on turning every second of Lily and Milo’s young lives into ‘a meaningful moment of discovery’ but he also insisted on detailing those moments in real time to his friends. The twins were stunners, Nat could see that and it was natural that the parents’ pride was off the scale, so she’d been reasonably patient when the twins were tiny and Mick had called her at work to say that Milo had taken a swipe at a dangling toy or that Lily could push down on her legs when her feet were placed on a firm surface. But the babies were over a year old now and while it was lovely that they could both gurgle nonsensically and walk around the furniture, Natalie didn’t think this news necessitated an email. Frankly, she’d lost any crumb of interest when they’d hit the stage of being able to extend arms or legs to help when being dressed.
Neil and Natalie had agreed that as regrettable as it was to see yet more mates go over to the dark side, Karen and Mick were now officially very, very boring. They’d promised to look them up again in eight or nine years’ time, not before. What could Neil be thinking of?
Babies. That’s what.
Natalie doubted that the guests for this evening’s get-together were a random selection. She recognised them for what they were – part of Neil’s campaign. Tim and Ali were desperately trying for babies and Mick and Karen never spoke about anything other than the twins; Neil might as well have invited the local branch of the National Childbirth Trust. Too angry to speak, she returned to the car, fetched the other boxes full of memorabilia and went upstairs to run a bath, pausing just long enough to pour and drink a large G&T. She was going to need it.
