Men I've Loved Before

by Adele Parks

  It was true to say that as a child and very young woman Nat used to feel constantly inept. It wasn’t that she felt there was an impending disaster, it was worse than that – she thought the disaster had already happened. She had already happened. She was the disaster.

  Nat was aware that she suffered from a classic and hefty dose of low self-esteem. She was one of those people who when offered a choice of two drinks would always reply, ‘Whatever is easiest, I really don’t mind, whatever you’re having.’ She would say this even if she detested one of the choices, and by responding in this way she had spent a good proportion of her life eating and drinking things she wasn’t too fond of, going places she had no interest in and, frankly, frustrating countless hosts who were never absolutely sure Nat was having the good time they were trying to provide.

  As Nat got older she realised that, gallingly, her policy of trying to disappear often had the opposite effect. She never wanted to cause a fuss, or put anyone to any extra trouble on her behalf as she believed there had already been far too much trouble on her behalf, but well-intentioned friends and acquaintances would lavish even more attention on her as they tried increasingly hard to draw her out of her shell. Nat was finally forced to change strategy when she was thirteen and her form tutor had demanded (in a tone of barely disguised irritation), ‘But you must have a preference as to which subjects you want to pursue as GCSEs, Natalie!’

  Nat had replied, ‘I don’t mind. You can pick them for me.’

  The teacher was unprepared to take on such a responsibility, it was unreasonable to expect it. ‘I’ll have to call your parents in, they can make the decision,’ she’d snapped.

  In a split second Nat listed the subjects she would study. Her biggest nightmare was inconveniencing her parents. Nat’s dose of low self-esteem was so extreme and sincere that she was not prepared to brandish it about the way Big Brother contestants felt compelled to.

  It had taken years but Nat had forced herself to be witty, bright and assertive. When she had felt wretched and worthless she had gone for a walk or called a friend. When she had wondered what was the point of herself, she’d switched on her laptop and worked. It had been the only way to get through; being shy and reclusive seemed so damned indulgent and Nat wasn’t sure whether self-indulgence and low self-esteem genuinely sat comfortably together. Eventually, years of pretending to trust herself had paid off and Nat started to believe her own performance. She hadn’t felt desolate or dejected for a long time. She was now an entirely different woman to the one she had been when she was with Matthew. She had her own lovely home, an exhilarating job and, of course, she had Neil.

  ‘So why are you less nervous now than you were then?’ asked Matthew as if following her thought pattern.

  ‘Age, I suppose. I guess that’s one of the advantages of getting older. You become more confident in yourself or at least resigned to what you are. There’s not the same amount of constant striving to impress or improve,’ she replied, scratching the surface of her reasoning and not prepared to do any more.

  ‘For me, coming out of the closet was, well, you can imagine, so liberating. Such a relief. I hated skulking around gay clubs, not being able to introduce my love interests to my friends and family. Constantly living with skeletons is truly hell.’

  ‘Yes.’ Nat looked at her hands. She knew that. She didn’t want to comment.

  There was a hiatus in the conversation and then the inevitable.

  ‘So why the call?’

  Matthew and Nat had eaten a large plate of delicious tapas, finished a bottle of Burgundy and they were sipping their water and coffees now. They’d caught up on one another’s careers. They knew that they each owned a property. He knew she had a cat, she knew he had a dog. They’d swapped names of people they’d once held in common, both those they still saw and those they’d lost touch with. There was only one topic of conversation left. The obvious one. The big one. Why the call?

  ‘I’m checking out whether I married the right one. You know out of my, well, choices, I suppose,’ confessed Nat with a big, deep breath.

  ‘Sounds serious. Well, at least I can put your mind at rest that I wasn’t really in the contest,’ joked Matthew. He was male and therefore unable to resist bringing the conversation back round to him, even if just for a moment. Then, more thoughtfully, he added, ‘Why do you doubt Neil?’

  She had to tell him, so she said it carefully, in a whisper that imbued importance. ‘I don’t want babies. Neil does.’

  ‘Ah,’ he replied and comfortingly he didn’t rush to fill the silence that ensued. He didn’t demand to know why she did not want babies or what was wrong with her. He simply digested the enormous fact.

  ‘Do you want them?’ Nat asked Matthew curiously.

  ‘Never been an option for me. I’m glad gay people have rights to adopt, or incubate or whatever they want to do to become a parent, but fundamentally I think being a parent is about putting the child first and I’m not sure I could do that. More, I’m not sure adopting a baby to be brought up by me and another guy would demonstrate that.’

  ‘Are you seeing anyone special?’

  ‘No. I was but we broke up because he wanted cats and as I mentioned I’m a—’

  ‘Dog sort of guy.’ Nat smiled.

  ‘There was more to it than that, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Maybe you understand me then,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Neil doesn’t.’

  ‘Right.’

  Neither of them could think of what else to say on the subject so they finished their coffees and then wandered back to Waterloo. They kissed on the cheek and Matthew got on the Northern line while Nat navigated her way westwards. He was renewed and relieved, glad to have told one more person the truth about who he was but Nat felt nothing of the sort. She was as churned up as a berry smoothie and did not feel a clear sense of anything. She was glad to have seen Matthew again, it had been a fun evening, but she was disturbed to recognise that her feelings of insecurity had been reawakened. It wasn’t meeting Matthew that had caused her to feel frail again, it was just that being with him helped her remember that she used to always carry around with her an unreasonable notion of impending doom. This sense of fear and disaster used to cling to her like a foul and deadly stench but had long since been banished from her life. Until recently. Until Neil had started to talk about a baby. Now that awful feeling had started to insidiously creep back into Nat’s heart and head.

  20

  It was obvious what Nat needed to do. She needed to reconnect with Neil. These secret wild-goose chases were damaging her peace of mind. They were pointless and silly. It was Neil she loved. Neil she had chosen and who had chosen her. This time, she would tell Neil all about her night out with her ex, her innocent, hilarious night out with her gay ex. It was pretty clear to her that these trips down memory lane led to dead ends. Large, solid brick walls, covered with graffiti and moss, walls she had no desire to scramble over. While Matthew was good-looking, funny, charming and successful, he was notably, inarguably, out-loud and proud gay. This fact indisputably negated any possibility of him being suitable as a lifelong partner. Gary, on the other hand, was a walking bag of testosterone, but he glazed over whenever she used words with more than two syllables. When she talked about her ineptitude in the gym he thought she was discussing some state-of-the-art equipment and he became anxious that he didn’t know what an ineptitude machine was exactly. He’d demanded, was it to work biceps or pecs? Meeting up with these two old exes confirmed she hadn’t taken a wrong turning; how could she have possibly doubted it, even for a moment? Being with Neil was as life should be. Even when they were wobbly, even when they were frustrated or angry with one another, they were still meant to be. She saw that now.

  She wouldn’t continue to make her way through her address book. She’d probably discover that her other near-miss Mr Rights were serial killers or bigamists, which isn’t good for a girl’s ego!
No, it was a waste of time and energy. What she needed to be doing was spending those resources on reconnecting with Neil. How had she allowed this gulf to open up between them? She must not let this baby business ruin them.

  Nat practically ran from the tube station to their street, as fast as her heels would allow her. The drizzle had temporarily eased off, which was a relief, although the wind lashed the trees and the branches danced in an agitated, uncoordinated jig. Nat suddenly thought of Neil dancing and she giggled to herself at the subconscious link. It was fair to say that they were both noted for their enthusiasm, rather than their skill, on the dance floor. They were the sort of couple who had too much fun to bother whether they looked cool when they danced. With Neil, Nat was prepared to be bold, rather than skulk around the edge of a party room, tapping her toe. Suddenly, Nat had a fantastic idea. They should go to a club and go dancing again! It had been ages since they’d done that. As their friends had started to pair off and procreate, wild nights of hilarity and abandon had been replaced by sophisticated dinners at elegant restaurants which were reviewed in the Sunday newspapers. They should do something crazy together.

  Better than her doing anything crazy alone.

  Nat arrived home buoyed up with red wine and good intentions; she expected to fall straight into bed with Neil. But once again, for the second time in just a week, he was not at home.

  Neil staggered in at 5a.m. By this point, all Nat’s positive intent had perished. For five hours she had spun through the emotional mill that every wife tumbles through when her husband is late home. Initially she had been excited and expectant, then she became weary and frustrated, and then panicked and despairing. She rang his mobile several times but it was out of power or switched off. When Neil finally fell through the door, a mighty tidal wave of relief soused her soul, but in an instant the relief morphed into fury. This time she didn’t want to feign sleep, this time she was ready to have an enormous row.

  ‘Who is she?’ she demanded, the moment her eyes became accustomed to the bright bedroom light that Neil had inconsiderately flicked on.

  ‘Who is who?’ slurred Neil.

  Nat had not planned this to be her first question. She’d expected to ask, ‘What time do you call this?’ or even, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ but as Neil had walked in with lipstick smeared on his cheek, Nat had a new imperative.

  ‘Who is she?’ she screamed again. It was surprising to her how she’d reached this aggressive, take-no-prisoners pitch in just seconds. She sounded terrifying to herself, but Neil was protected by the huge quantities of alcohol he’d consumed and couldn’t respond to her fury.

  ‘Who is who?’ he slurred for the second time, trying, and failing, to look innocent. Neil attempted to pull his face into a suitable expression. But he couldn’t decide what suitable might be. Rakish but charming? Or lovable and puppy dog? The result was an inappropriate smirk that served to enrage Nat further.

  ‘You’ve been with another woman!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You liar. I can see lipstick on your face.’ Nat leapt out of bed and quickly examined Neil. ‘And fake tan on your crotch! Who the hell is she?’

  ‘Barbie, or Bella, or Cindy or something,’ giggled Neil. Clearly too pissed to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

  ‘I don’t want to hear made-up names inspired by bloody Disney videos. What is the name of your other woman?’ demanded Nat. Hot tears sprang into her eyes. She wanted to hit him. Punch him and wound him as brutally as she was wounded. How had this happened? How could Neil be seeing someone else?

  ‘I’m not making it up,’ insisted Neil. ‘Strippers have funny names like that. Cherry and Jaz and things.’

  ‘Strippers?’

  ‘Yes. We went to Hush Hush. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Nat knew that in the past Neil had on occasion visited a strip joint. Usually he cited the tenuous excuse of corporate entertainment if they had their big boss over from Japan, or maybe a stag do. And while she didn’t love the idea of him paying to watch women take their clothes off, she didn’t hate it any more than the fact that he snowboarded off piste, which she considered seriously dangerous, or that he was saving up to buy a Ducati Monster motorbike, come to that. She thought he had a lot of dumb hobbies. But why had he gone to a strip joint tonight? It wasn’t anyone’s birthday.

  ‘Why did you go to Hush Hush?’

  ‘Felt like it.’ Neil considered saying it was Karl’s idea but he knew she’d think it was a cop-out. She might even respond, ‘If Karl suggested jumping into a lake, would you say yes?’ He would actually, because if Karl suggested jumping into a lake, it would probably be a damn fine idea, but he knew it would be stupid to say as much, inflammatory. He felt sick. He really had drunk far, far too much. He hoped that in the morning he’d clearly remember the magnificent orbs that belonged to Cherry, or Barbie or whatever she was called, but he doubted it. He’d probably only know he’d visited the strip joint because of the banging in his head and the hole in his finances. He tried hard to commit to memory the exact colour and texture of her nipple, the mesmerising, tantalising bumps that were so familiar and yet completely strange.

  ‘You’re not bothered, are you? You’ve never been bothered before and I know you’re not one to change your mind,’ said Neil. He hadn’t intended to place such heavy emphasis on this point but it was beyond his control. He actually believed (in that deluded way drunks have) that he was being subtle.

  So there it was. The reason. The great fucking elephant in the room. She didn’t want a baby. She wouldn’t change her mind about wanting a baby. Nat’s fury dissolved and was replaced by fear and a hideous sense of loss. She was nauseous with that sense of doom again. Why couldn’t this issue just go away? Poof, be gone! Vanish! Disappear!

  She closed her eyes tightly and wished as though she was a child. But after some moments she had to open them again and everything was the same. The same warm and creased duvet had slipped off the bed and lay in a pile on the floor. There were the same pictures on the wall although one wasn’t hanging straight as Neil had knocked it when he staggered into the room. There he was, the same drunken husband swaying in the door frame and he was wearing the same expression he always wore nowadays, one of confusion and sadness. She realised he’d backed her into a corner. There was nothing she could say to his comment. She would not change her mind on the pertinent issue, so anything she said now would be used against her, even though she was pretty sure he was the one in the wrong. He was the one who’d visited a strip joint.

  And she was the one looking up exes in her Little Black Book.

  Her ex was gay.

  The stripper didn’t have any interest in Neil beyond how much cash he was going to spend that night.

  And yet . . .

  It was a mess.

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ said Neil, dashing from the room.

  Nat heard the vomit splash into the loo. She slammed shut their bedroom door, picked the duvet up from the floor and pulled it over her head.

  21

  Neil didn’t think of himself as the secretive type. Keeping secrets demanded energy and a zeal for complications which he simply didn’t possess and yet now he found himself, for the third time in twelve days, withdrawing cash from the hole in the wall and heading towards the pink building with blackened windows. He’d visited the night before last, without Karl. He’d told himself that he was just popping in for a pint on the way home from work but even before the excuse had fully formed in his own mind, he knew he was a liar. They didn’t sell pints at Hush Hush and the bottled beer cost four times the amount it should. But Nat was out with Becky again, so why not? There was nothing and no one to stop him.

  He’d learnt from the ponytailed barman that ‘his girl’ was called Cindy. He’d been worried that he wouldn’t be able to describe her, not exactly. He couldn’t remember the colour of her eyes. Many of the women at the venue had viciously bleached hair so he could rule out those ones, as h
is girl had dark hair, but that still left a fair few. None of them wore clothes and inconveniently, but understandably, they didn’t have any distinguishing birthmarks. It was unlikely you’d choose to strip for a living if you had a raspberry mark the size of a football on your arse, however convenient that might be for drunken clients who were hoping to track down a particular girl. But, right away, the barman knew which girl Neil was tracking. Neil wondered if on his previous visit he’d been conspicuous in some way and he hoped not.

  ‘Cindy’s not in tonight. Her night off,’ said the barman. He held a bottle of something pretending to be champagne in his hand and moved it an inch in a tiny gesture which meant he was offering Neil a drink. Neil hadn’t wanted to stay if Cindy wasn’t around but before he could shake his head the barman had already poured him a glass. ‘Do you want to open a tab?’ he asked, holding out a hand to take Neil’s credit card. The barman’s hand was pale and podgy, too many late nights in dark rooms. Black hairs scampered from under his shirt sleeve, across the back of his hand and down to his knuckles. His appearance, with werewolf undertones, was vaguely threatening.

  ‘No. Cash.’ Neil passed over a note and wasn’t offered any change.

  Neil took a sip of the fizzy drink, and before the vivacious bubbles could hurtle towards his tonsils, two dancers were at his side. They both had deep tans and shallow smiles. Their thighs and arms glistened, their lips were moist and their faces glimmered with sparkly make-up. In fact they were so heavily made up Neil thought they were wearing masks, and maybe they were. He knew then how the night would pan out. They would ask if they could join him for a drink. He’d buy a bottle, then another and then he’d follow one of these flicky-haired women behind the dangling beads, so he could get a close look at what a fabulous job her beautician had done on her Brazilian. He felt numb. He didn’t particularly want to see these women naked. He had come here tonight to see Cindy. And even then, not to see her naked.