Men I've Loved Before

by Adele Parks

  Karl returned and sat next to her. Nat had always noted that while Karl was not a classically handsome man he put a lot of effort into countering the fact by wearing fashionable clothes, working out and getting hair cut at an expensive hair stylist. It cost a lot but it was worth it as his hair was floppy when floppy was required and spiky when that was in fashion. At the moment he was wearing it quite long and softly curled. It was his most effective look ever, as it gave the impression that he was somehow more artistic and deeper than was actually the case. You sort of forgot that his eyes were a little too close together, thought Nat. He smiled kindly at her and she felt mean about thinking so badly of him and his smelly sofa. The measures he poured were generous; they clinked glasses and knocked them back.

  Karl had been a bit pissed off that Jen had insisted on going home tonight. For a start, it ruled out the possibility of a shag, which was unreasonable considering it was a Saturday and they’d only officially got engaged yesterday. He had been pretty confident that agreeing to buy the engagement ring would mean round-the-clock sex for a fortnight, minimum. And, the other thing was, he didn’t like waking up alone on a Saturday morning; he had been considering whether he should make a booty call, when Nat had rung the doorbell.

  Karl hadn’t quite made up his mind how he was going to play it with his liaisons now that he was engaged. Would he knock it all on the head? After all, he’d had his fair share of totty over the years. Or would he carry on, just taking care to be uber discreet? They did say old habits died hard. Karl thought his individual skill with women was that he was careful to promise them absolutely nothing and he delivered on that admirably. His true genius lay in the fact that while maintaining a distance, he managed to make every woman he ever met feel amazingly special, thus answering the call of a particular twenty-first-century epidemic. Karl firmly believed that he should give every girl a whirl. Posh ‘gals’ did it for him, as did rough birds, he thought fat girls were enthusiastic and dirty, but then skinny women could be flipped around, so they were all good. Bright ladies were a challenge and the dim ones were a giggle. The only type of woman that Karl would pass up was the type of woman who cocked her head to one side and asked, ‘How are you feeling?’ with that painful sincerity they’d probably learnt from an American chat show host. He was more a doing sort of guy. The thing was, he didn’t really feel ready to settle down. No matter what he’d told the others this evening, he didn’t think the time was right. More, he didn’t think the girl was right. But Jen had wanted it so much. She’d gone on and on and on and on, like some bloody Duracell bunny. She seemed to want it enough for the two of them. Karl necked another drink. Anyway, he didn’t have to think about any of that now as Nat was fantastic, unexpected company; a booty call would not be required. He’d always had a soft spot for Nat. She was hot and bright but besides that he liked the fact that she so clearly disapproved of him and all he stood for and yet still seemed to find him amusing. There was nothing he liked more than good women finding his bad boy act irresistible.

  Karl had often wondered what Nat would be like in the sack. He’d tried to get Neil to talk about it but he never would. He used to talk about the other women before Nat but not Nat, which suggested she must be something really special. A thought occurred to Karl: was it possible that he might still get to find out? He’d long since stopped hoping for that but with this turn of events, the opportunity might present itself. Karl, for all his faults, was a fair man. He’d always believed what was good for the goose was good for the gander. If Neil was shagging the stripper (and he might very well be) then Nat was owed a revenge fuck. He’d be doing them a service; it would even up the scoreboard. He wouldn’t do anything particularly underhand to secure his chances; after all, Neil was a mate. He wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t true but Nat, once in possession of all the facts, might find she agreed with him. She might think she was entitled to a bit of off-piste. He poured them both another generous whisky.

  ‘He has been acting a bit oddly recently,’ said Karl thoughtfully. ‘He goes for these long walks on company time. He told me he’s spent almost two grand at Hush Hush. Is it like an addiction, do you think?’

  ‘How could I have missed this?’ Nat muttered. She let her head fall into her hands and stared at her shoes. Karl looked at the ceiling. He sensed that she was about to spill. Gaining her confidence was essential. He didn’t push her. He had to let her come to him in her own time. Slowly, slowly catch the monkey. He stretched out his arm and gently stroked her back; he felt her shimmy under his touch. Mentally, he punched the air. Way to go, life in the old boy yet!

  ‘He’s a bloody fool,’ said Karl as he pulled Nat into a friendly hug. She collapsed into his warmth, too drunk and too wrung-out to question the sagacity or significance of allowing Karl to hug her on his sex sofa, when they were alone in his flat, in the early hours of the morning. It was rather pleasant, actually, the first pleasant thing that had happened to her all night. So she didn’t object when he held her a little too close and a little too long.

  She sighed heavily, ‘I haven’t had my eye on the ball. I’ve been distracted with all this other stuff.’

  ‘Such as?’ Karl could smell a scandal.

  ‘I have this old address book, a sort of Little Black Book, if you like,’ admitted Nat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been, erm, well, catching up with my exes.’

  ‘Shag anyone?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to be offensive but I thought that was the point of looking up exes.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t.’

  ‘What is the point then?’

  ‘It was . . . I just needed to . . .’ Nat didn’t know how to finish.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Check something.’

  ‘What did you need to check?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ She barely understood herself now.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Whether Neil was . . . well, whether he was . . . the right one.’

  ‘Ah. The baby business,’ said Karl with a knowing nod. Nat stared at Karl, somewhat taken aback by his perception. ‘He wants a sprog and you don’t want a sprog.’ Nat nodded. That was it really, in a nutshell. That’s where this had all started. ‘I’m surprised Jen hasn’t told me that’s what you’ve been up to with this Little Black Book of yours,’ mused Karl.

  ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her?’

  ‘No.’ God, her head was fuzzy. She had drunk far, far too much tonight. She needed to stop now or at least drink something a little less potent. She wondered if there was anything other than whisky; it was almost finished now anyway. Hadn’t that bottle been three-quarters full when she arrived?

  ‘I thought you two told each other everything,’ said Karl, carefully slipping into gear.

  ‘Not everything, no,’ said Nat sadly.

  ‘Wise. You know her. She can’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. She’s even shown me the wedding dress she wants. She’s just not a secrets sort of girl.’ Karl was revving up and he knew exactly where he was travelling to.

  ‘Whereas—’

  ‘You are a secrets sort of girl.’ He was now checking in his wing mirror and rear view to see whether anyone else was about to make a manoeuvre.

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Nat.

  ‘Takes one to know one. And I’m a secrets sort of guy.’ There was a silence that could be bitten. ‘Another drink?’ offered Karl, looking for a green light.

  ‘OK,’ agreed Nat, giving it to him, whether she was aware of it or not. They both silently watched the golden liquid dance into the glasses. Karl considered his next move. Nat considered her last one. ‘You know what? I found that I didn’t want any of them, my exes.’ Nat saw this as reason to be hopeful. Karl immediately took the wind out of her sails.

  ‘You know, the thing is, Nat, looking back isn’t a problem. These blokes you’ve been knocking about with, w
ell, they are just people you’ve already passed over. There’s nothing enticing or exciting there. It’s looking forward that’s the issue. Things only get really tempting, dangerous, if you come across anyone new that you find interesting.’

  The word interesting hung in the air like a shadow.

  33

  When she woke up, her throat felt sour and constricted and her head felt as if it had been turned inside out. She didn’t dare move in case she vomited. For a fraction of a second, before she opened her eyes, she believed the worst thing she’d have to contend with that day was a vicious hangover but then she remembered . . . she’d left Neil. Fuck. Neil was having an affair. Fuck. Fuck. Before that realisation had a chance to strike its vicious blow, other thoughts started to punch their way into her consciousness. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No, no, no. Let it not be true, she begged. Begged who? Herself. There was no one else to blame. Let it be a bad dream, a vivid, cruel, careless dream. But even before Nat prised open her eyes, she knew this was not the case. The events of last night came crashing back to her in hopeless, overwhelming waves.

  It was impossible for her to piece the night together coherently, she’d drunk far too much for that, all she had to work with were scalding images of flesh rubbing up against more flesh. She remembered the wrong lips, tongues, hands and fingers exploring her body. Horrified, she recalled the wrong man carrying her to bed. She squirmed with shame at the thought of Karl having her, taking possession of her. It had been a wild, animalistic deed; the sort of act that is fuelled by anger, whisky and confusion.

  She turned her head to the side and was relieved to find that Karl was not there. Maybe he was in the bathroom or maybe he’d nipped out to buy a paper or some breakfast. She knew he wasn’t the sort to have a full fridge, not unless Jen had stocked it. Oh God, Jen. Poor, poor Jen. What had she done? She had to get out of his bed, his room and his flat immediately. She lifted the alien duvet and the scent of last night’s exertions drifted towards her. The distinct tang of sweat and a fainter, but just as recognisable, smell of sex assaulted her. She could taste his tongue. She really was going to be sick.

  Quickly and quietly she leapt out of bed. She looked around for her clothes. Her knickers were still inside her trousers which made her think that he must have been in a hurry. She was still wearing her T-shirt, for which she was grateful. She supposed she must have put it back on last night after the sex, to keep warm, or maybe it had never come off and he’d just edged it out of the way when they were at it. She couldn’t pursue that line of thought. All she knew was that she was grateful that by wearing a T-shirt, at least that removed the possibility that Karl had cupped her breast all night long as he spooned into her, just as Neil always did. Small consolation but, as irrational as it might be, Nat wanted to preserve that intimacy for just the two of them, no matter what. No matter that he was having an affair. No matter that she’d had a drunken mistaken shag. No matter what.

  Nat swiftly retrieved her coat and bag which had been thrown on top of the dirty linen basket; she speedily slipped into her trainers and silently slipped down the stairs and out of the front door without pausing to say goodbye to Karl.

  Once outside in the drizzle, Nat checked her watch. It was 8.40a.m. Nat longed to lie on the wet pavement, curl into a ball and howl but of course she could not. For a start, if Karl was in the bathroom or kitchen, then her howling outside his front door might just attract his attention. If he wasn’t inside, and had just popped out to the local corner shop, he might return any second. She did not want to talk to him; about that much at least she was certain. Nat turned right and started to walk to the tube. It was imperative that she got away. Nat felt the seeds of a plan form in her mind. This time she knew where she had to go and what she needed. She needed her mum. She needed Nina.

  The journey home to Guildford was the longest of Natalie’s life. Throughout, nausea threatened to explode and she had to concentrate very hard on not allowing that to happen. Throwing up on a tube would be unforgivable but then so was sleeping with your husband’s friend. Nat hated herself. She caught the District line from Turnham Green to Embankment and changed, then took the Northern line to Waterloo. At Waterloo, even before she bought a ticket, she searched out the public loos.

  As she approached the station toilets, the sweet smells of croissants and strong coffee were shoved away by the disgusting smell of cheap disinfectant. The cheap disinfectant stench was all the more overpowering because everyone knows that it masks other, much worse, smells of London station life. Nat knew she was in serious danger of losing it when she discovered she needed twenty pence to get through the turnstile and into the loo, and all she could think to do was to kick the machine. The futile violence brought back the image of Neil thumping the wall the night before and she felt a pain as though he’d punched her. Oh God, just the night before? How could that be? How had so much happened in such a short time? She desperately rummaged through her purse and bag, hoping to unearth the correct change. By chance there was a loose coin hidden in the very bottom of her bag, nestled next to the damned address book.

  Her freezing fingers were shaking as she urgently pushed the coin into the slot. She prayed that she would make it as far as the loo before she up-chucked. Nat barraged herself into a cubicle and then once again rummaged in her bag. She grabbed the small black book which she’d prized so highly over the past few weeks. It did not induce a voluntary gasp of excitement, just a long, low growl of anguish. Natalie hardly dared breathe in the skanky public conveniences so she did not sniff the book’s cover, but even if she had, she knew it would have only smelt of leather, nothing more. The book could no longer evoke feelings of possibility or bright memories of her youth. Dusty angels and horny devils did not flutter out of the pages; instead, the book burnt her hands and she was scalded with shame, fear and a deep, deep dark sense of having completely and utterly fucked up. Nat shook and wept. She tore at the pages in the book and flung them down the loo. She wanted to pee on them, puke on them and, finally, flush them away. The vomit did not come and it took eight flushes of the loo before the pages finally disappeared down the pipes. Nat threw the leather cover in the disgusting bin intended for used sanitary protection. The attendant, suspecting God knows what (a suicide on her watch, someone shooting up or maybe just an act of vandalism), angrily banged on the door and threatened to call the police unless Nat came out of the cubicle immediately.

  34

  Neil had already called Nina and Brian. He hadn’t wanted to alarm them but on the other hand he was terrified, clueless and panicked, so he did just that. He’d already repeatedly called Nat’s phone but it was switched off and then he found it lying in the hall. It must have fallen out of her pocket, last night when she was scampering upstairs, desperate to make love to him. Oh God, how could that be less than a day ago? Neil called all of Nat’s friends, one by one. He made up some daft story about her having said she was sleeping at a mate’s but he couldn’t remember who exactly and now he found he needed to talk to her about collecting the dry-cleaning. As it was 8a.m. on a Saturday when he called and the excuse was so pathetically flimsy, he didn’t think it was likely anyone believed him, not for a moment, but he wasn’t concerned about their gossip, he just wanted to find Nat.

  He had to be more honest with Alison of course. To her he admitted that they’d had a row but he resisted going into detail. He just wanted to reach Nat and sort all this mess out as quickly as possible. He believed he could explain everything and in the cool, calm light of day Nat would be persuaded to believe that there was nothing going on between him and Cindy; at least nothing of any consequence. And now that he’d had time to think about it, he believed her that nothing was going on with any of her ex-boyfriends. So while their situation wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t dire either. Neil knew that Nat would be furious with him if he went into any sort of detail with her friends about their argument – over-sharing wasn’t Nat’s style – so he tried to keep his conversation with Ali brief even
though she clearly had a thirst for particulars. Ali said she hadn’t seen Nat or heard from her and suggested he call Jen. Jen hadn’t seen or heard from her either; she suggested he call Brian and Nina. So when Nat arrived at her parents’, she was greeted by Brian and Nina’s anxious faces pressed against the window in anticipation.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked her dad.

  ‘I need a shower,’ replied Nat.

  She showered but she was sure the stink of last night’s vileness clung. Then she silently gulped back two large mugs of strong, orange tea while her parents fretfully hovered nearby. As Nat started to make her third cup of tea, Brian’s impatience got the better of him.

  ‘Well? Are you going to tell us what’s going on?’ he snapped. He was worried for his daughter but his concern came out as irritation. Nina shot her husband a warning look.

  Nat didn’t know where to begin. She stared at the small wooden kitchen table. The table had once been in her grandmother’s home and had been brought to this kitchen when Grandma Morgan moved into a small assisted-care home. It was at this table, over many years, that Nat had sat to eat meals, do homework, complete jigsaws, decorate Easter eggs and do countless other harmless activities. She was unsure how she could spill her story over such an innocent. She looked around and saw familiar chipped mugs, a memorable blue glass vase, the eternally grubby black and white floor tiles and numerous well-thumbed recipe books. Surrounded by such well-known household items, she tried to search her brain for some sort of substance and meaning as she forced herself to think about the night before. Haphazard and horrible flashbacks battered her consciousness. Helplessly she grappled to understand what had happened but she couldn’t make sense of anything.