‘Of course,’ I said, inwardly cringing.
‘Don’t look so horrified.’ He took my hand. ‘Just think about the LA job. Take it seriously.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said.
‘Hey, no big deal,’ Jaden said, holding his hands up. ‘I know you think I’m some strange beancurd-eating Californian who talks a lot of crap, but doesn’t one small part of you think it could be kind of cool? But if I’m saying it to you, you’ll never take it seriously as a suggestion. I know you won’t. It’s all about boundaries with you.’ He sighed. ‘And now you’ll laugh at me.’
‘I’m not!’ I said, appalled that I was coming across as some sarcastic laughing cow. ‘I don’t laugh at you.’
‘No, I know you don’t, and I don’t mean it like that…I mean…I know you’ve had a rough time, and I know about that guy David—’
‘Jaden,’ I said, putting my finger to his lips, ‘stop it, it’s fine.’
‘Let me finish, Lizzy. Perhaps a change would be good for you.’
‘It wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘That’s not what I need.’
‘I don’t think you know what you need. I’m not saying I do either – I’m not saying anyone does. But that’s fine. I’m not trying to say – anything. But it might be cool, you know. You could come live with me for a while.’
‘And what would I do there?’ I said, knowing where this was going.
‘Well, you’d be away from a lot of stuff. And we could do as much or as little of this as we wanted.’
‘Of what?’ I said.
‘Going home together, QE Three. Your place tonight, I think.’
‘I think not,’ I said. ‘The boiler, remember. It’s your turn, partner. Come on, let’s go.’
Jaden kissed me again, and that lovely momentary feeling he gave me, of being carefree, came over me. And a tiny part of me wondered if he might be right. He took my hand and we ran out, down the steps into the fresh spring night.
SEVENTEEN
The next day, deciding I had to take positive action, I emailed Mike. My purpose was several-fold: to do some digging about him and Rosalie, to get him to reveal some actual information about SOKH and, finally, to ask him to ring David on some other pretext and get Brian the plumber’s number. I had remembered one more thing about him: he had referred to himself as Spanish Brian throughout our previous encounter. That wasn’t much help, but surely it was better than nothing.
Mike didn’t reply. Three days went past, during which I forgot about it, caught up with Ash and his love for Georgy. Ever the romantic, Ash had forgotten about Lola, the love of his life, and moved on to Georgy, whom he’d met a couple of times but who had blanked him up until the previous week when, at the pub with me and assorted others from work, they’d got drunk and snogged. Last week they’d been out on a date, slept together, and Georgy – who is never around and when she is even I, her best friend, find it virtually impossible to get hold of her – hadn’t been in touch since. In desperation, Ash had written her a letter with bullet-points explaining why their love would be true if she’d only go out with him. He hadn’t sent it, thank God – I’d managed to stop him in time. Every time I think that I am becoming a crazy stalker or that I obsess too much about an ex-boyfriend, I look over at my friends or relatives and see them being even madder than me, which gives me succour.
Take Mike. I wondered how he and Rosalie were getting on, now the initial thrill of wedded bliss was over. Until he’d met her, Mike was what you would call a confirmed bach-elor – in the non-gay sense. He suits himself – in an entirely charming way, of course, and I couldn’t help thinking he must be finding it odd to live in a strange apartment, having to fit his stuff in with someone else’s, adjust to their way of living. The benefits, of course, were that the apartment was a prime piece of Manhattan real estate overlooking Central Park and he had a wife who was supposedly crazy in love with him. I found myself thinking about him a lot. The sale of the house was hard for him, especially coupled with this new stage in his life.
Worryingly, my email was bounced back, and although I tried a different address he never replied. In the back of my mind it bothered me: I had a creeping feeling about Rosalie, almost as if she was trying to isolate Mike from his family. He would do anything for an easy life; I couldn’t see him resisting her for long. Would he let her keep him away from us? I didn’t want to believe it, but as the weeks went by I started to accept that he might.
The next week I had Tom, Jess and Miles round for supper. I’d invited Georgy too, but she was flying to Sorrento that night to oversee the opening of some new luxury hotel, the lucky cow. She was going to be away for five weeks in the sun in a flash hotel in Italy. Her life is considerably nicer than mine, which should make me want to hit her. I hadn’t seen Tom properly since about 450 BC – he could have become an astronaut or a bra designer for all I knew. Or Miles. Or Jess, come to that. There were things we needed to discuss: Chin’s wedding and whether we would kill her before the happy day because she was driving us all up the wall; the Caldwells, for whom we all nursed an enjoyable loathing; and, finally, Gibbo’s stag night and Chin’s hen party, which Tom and I respectively were organizing and which were going to be great, except Tom’s idea of a bonzer night out and Gibbo’s were quite different. What none of us would discuss was the sale of the house.
On the way home that Friday I went to Luigi’s and got lots of antipasti, tomatoes, scraps of bresaola and prosciutto, garlicky olives, some lovely oily focaccia, olive oil and lemons. I was so pleased at this vision of my simple, elegant delicatessen-style Friday kitchen-table supper, with low key but exquisite food served in an atmosphere of relaxed chats and wine, that I forgot how cold the flat was. As I stood glaring at the boiler, I ate most of the ham and all of the artichoke hearts by mistake. As my gaze drifted away from the boiler and roamed idly to the counter and the empty clear containers I realised my faux pas. First rule of elegant dining: do not eat the guests’ supper because you are an oinky piggy pig. I slapped my hand to my mouth, still chewing, screamed swear words at the boiler whose fault it clearly was, slapped it viciously, then stomped into the sitting room just as the phone rang.
‘Hello,’ I snarled.
‘Lizzy, it’s Miles. I’m just checking about tonight. Is it eight o’clock?’
‘Yes. Have you eaten?’
There was a silence. ‘No,’ said Miles, after a moment. ‘No, I was…well, I was assuming you were providing food since your text message said, “Come round for supper.” Silly me. Was I wrong?’
‘No,’ I said, refusing to rise to the bait and not wanting to have a long chat with someone whom I was about to spend the evening with (why do people do this, I ask myself? I do not know, it is annoying, I answer myself.) ‘See you at eight then. Bring a jumper by the way.’
‘Have you lost all your clothes?’
‘The boiler’s still not working and it can get quite chilly. Well, very chilly. And the plumber who was supposed to come isn’t till…’ I stopped, overwhelmed by anger at modern plumbing standards. Then I made my first mistake of the evening. ‘Miles, I wouldn’t ask you this normally, but can you do me a massive favour? You usually speak to David on Saturday afternoons, don’t you?’ – for they did, David would ring during Final Score on Grandstand and Miles would read out the football results, up to Division Two – ‘Can you ask him something for me?’
‘What, Lizzy?’ Miles said, with a faux-horrified gasp. ‘The enemy? Sure, what is it? You’ve changed your mind about him?’
‘God, Miles, get a grip.’ I was horrified to find myself blushing. ‘No, it’s really stupid. So don’t bother. In fact,’ I said, changing my mind again, because I was sick of (a) behaving like a four-year-old and (b) living in the Arctic, ‘do bother. Could you ask him for Spanish Brian’s phone number?’
‘David, what’s Spanish Brian’s phone number?’ Miles repeated.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much, Miles, that would be super-helpful.�
��
There was a pause. ‘07387 843312,’ Miles said.
‘Or whatever, yes,’ I said. ‘Who knows?’
‘Do you want me to repeat it?’
‘No,’ I said, confused. ‘I’ll make sure I have a pen and paper handy when you ring me tomorrow afternoon so you don’t have to. Just speaking slowly will be OK, I’m sure.’
‘No, Lizzy. That was Brian’s number,’ Miles said.
‘How do you know? Have you used him too?’
‘No,’ said Miles, casually. ‘David’s standing right here, he’s reading it off his phone. He’s staying with me this weekend.’
Someone who wasn’t me said, ‘How marvellous. Do bring him along to the relaxed-kitchen-table supper tonight.’ I had no idea why I said this. It was my second mistake of the night – third, if you count accidentally wolfing the food before the guests had even arrived.
There was a pause at the other end and I could tell that conferring was taking place.
‘He’d love to come,’ Miles said. ‘We’ll see you at eight. In jumpers. Great. Looking forward to it.’
I hadn’t chosen my first meeting with David since our split – standing in church with him had been an accident. But the second was entirely my fault and now I had just an hour to prepare for it. He was coming here, to the flat, where we had spent so much time together. Should I divest my home of David-related things? I wanted to, I didn’t want him to think I was sentimental about anything. I couldn’t bear the idea of his pity. So I ran round with a plastic bag and collected up the following: a silver photo frame with a picture of me and David under the Eiffel Tower; a letter he’d written me, which was tucked inside a book on the mantelpiece (unlikely he’d go book-browsing, but still too much of a risk), a tie he’d left here when he went to New York (hideously expensive and a bit kipperish but trendy), a video of Some Like It Hot, which he had given me for Christmas the previous year and, most importantly, my first-year hall photo at university, an hilarious group of self-consciously groovy students standing in three long rows that I usually kept rolled up and had forgotten about. But the previous week Georgy had come round and we’d found Lisa Garratt (admittedly after painstakingly searching for her with a slow-moving finger going along each line). She was in among a group of boys – oh, what a surprise. Georgy had got out a pen and written, ‘Look for me down the docks,’ in a speech bubble next to her and I had scratched out her face with a pin. Reading that, it makes it sound as if we are psychos, but show me a girl who isn’t slightly imbalanced at some point in her life when it comes to men and I will show you one of George Bush’s brain cells.
Everything went into a plastic bag and into a corner of my bedroom out of harm’s way. Then I changed into a low-cut top and zooshed my hair up. Then I changed out of the low-cut top into one with long sleeves and a high neck, then de-zooshed my hair. I put on S Club 7’s Greatest Hits, changed it to Chet Baker, took off Chet Baker and put S Club 7 back on. Tough! I thought. You always hated S Club 7! Well, screw you! You’re a guest in my home, you cheating bastard, and you can bloody well listen to S Club 7 and appreciate the melodic structure and beauty of ‘Never Had A Dream Come True’ for once, and I hope it grates on your very soul all night.
‘Ha-ha!’ I yelled calmly at Jess and Tom, when they arrived just after eight. ‘Nothing special. David’s coming with Miles tonight, thought I should forewarn you.’
Jess and Tom gaped, as well they might.
‘Coming here? To your home?’ Jess asked, in hushed tones.
‘Yes,’ I said more calmly, handing them each a glass of wine.
‘In your flat? My God, how can you?’ hissed Tom.
‘He’s my ex-boyfriend, you know, not a serial killer.’
‘He might as well be,’ muttered Tom, gulping his wine. ‘Well, I shall have something to say to David Eliot.’
‘Oh, yes, me too,’ said Jess, a martial gleam in her eye.
‘Please, Tom, Jess, don’t say anything to him,’ I begged. ‘That’s the worst thing you could do. If you want to help me, make out I’m completely fantastic and over him. Don’t be cross with him and don’t make out he’s broken my heart.’
‘But he did break your heart, he should know how much he hurt you,’ said my doltish sister. ‘It’s freezing in here, by the way. Have you still not got the boiler fixed?’
I couldn’t stand the idea that David might feel I hadn’t moved on and was scratching out people’s faces while he was gadding about in New York, indulging in a spot of light shagging with Lisa Garratt on the photocopier. ‘I mean it,’ I said firmly. ‘If you love me at all, do this for me.’ I allowed my bottom lip to tremble just a little.
They were both won over. Jess patted my arm and Tom said, ‘Fine.’ He looked around, taking stock of his surroundings, including me. ‘God, this is such a fantastic album, isn’t it? What a strange top you’ve got on, though, Lizzy. You look like a vestal virgin.’
I laughed a hollow laugh and went into the kitchen, hoping against hope that the food would have multiplied itself since I’d last looked at it.
About ten minutes later the doorbell rang and with a shaking hand I answered the intercom and let them in. My policy was to be calm and cheery, as if to say, ‘Well, this is rather strange, isn’t it? But we are All Adults, aren’t we? So welcome to my home. Would you care for some dry white wine?’
The anticipation is the worst, I think, the knowledge that you will definitely see him, and being unable to predict what will happen and whether you will acquit yourself properly. As I heard the steady thump of their feet on the last staircase I pinched my left arm to ward off a rising tide of hysteria. Calm down, you stupid girl, I told myself. This man moved away, slept with someone else and dumped you. How dare you get into such a state about it?
I gritted my teeth, flared my nostrils and held my head high. God, I hated him for invading my home and ruining what might have been a lovely evening.
There was a knock on the door. The outsiders were outside. An evening with David loomed ahead and there was no way out. I looked at myself in the hall mirror, checked my teeth for lipstick, smiled at myself in a pathetic way. Then I opened the door.
EIGHTEEN
‘Hi,’ I said, in a normal voice, though my heart was thumping. ‘Come in. I’m sorry it’s so cold. Hi, Miles.’ I kissed his cheek. ‘Hi, David, lovely to see you.’ I kissed his cheek too, but I didn’t look at him. Then I stood back and smiled brightly. Miles grinned so kindly that I wanted to hug him. Behind him, David stood awkwardly.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I would say, can I take your coats but you might be better to keep them on.’
‘Don’t worry, we’re jumpered up,’ said Miles. ‘Here’s some wine, and some flowers.’ He took off his coat.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Well – David, it’s not like you don’t know where the bedroom is! Would you mind popping the coats in there and, Miles, can you come with me and open the wine?’
Miles flashed me a look of surprise and inwardly I congratulated myself. David, startled, disappeared with the coats down the corridor. I licked my lips, my mouth was dry, and smiled at Miles. ‘Come with me, darling. Can you be wine person this evening if I put you in charge of the corkscrew?’
‘Course,’ said Miles, and winked for which I loved him. We went into the kitchen.
While we were in there, I heard David saying hello to my sister and Tom. After a few seconds of stony silence he came in. ‘You got rid of the Puddlesmasher.’
‘He’s being dry-cleaned.’
The Puddlesmasher was a long, floppy, penguin-like toy I’d had since I was very small. He used to be my mother’s, and there is an adorable picture of her when she’s tiny, with curly hair, in a little spotted dress, clutching him and smiling toothily at the camera. He’s black and white with peachy pink webbed feet, and usually hung on a hook above my bed. That sounds like I’m the kind of girl who has a large pink armchair bursting with cuddly toys and uses Forever Friends stationery. I am
not. It’s just that the Puddlesmasher’s great. David always thought he was hilarious.
‘Right,’ said Miles, as David and I stared at each other, unsure what to say next. ‘Who wants some wine?’
‘Me, please,’ we said simultaneously.
I regrouped mentally as I took my glass. Be firm. You’re doing really well. Don’t let him feel sorry for you. ‘Thanks so much for coming,’ I said to him. ‘Can you give me Spanish Brian’s number now, before we forget about it? Imagine if you left and we’d forgotten the whole point of you coming over.’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ David said, clearly trying not to goggle at my marvellous insouciance. ‘Do you – can I have a pen and paper? Better still, why don’t I just call him now for you?’
‘Oh, would you mind?’ I said airily. ‘That’s really sweet of you. Here’s the phone. Do you mind going into the hall to talk to him? Thanks.’
David disappeared again. I shut the door on him and turned to the others. ‘Pour me some more wine, will you, Jess? And, Tom, S Club 7’s finished. Press play again and let’s have it from the beginning, shall we?’
We made a strange group that night, and it was sad, when I thought about how it would otherwise have been. It was sad to see David, Tom and Jess standing in my sitting room chatting awkwardly about David’s flight over.
‘So, David, where do you live now?’ Jess said politely, as I handed round crisps and olives.
‘Greenwich Village,’ David said. ‘In an apartment building.’
‘Is that where you’ve always been?’ Tom asked, equally politely.
‘Yes,’ David said. ‘It’s a great neighbourhood. I can walk to work – that’s the beauty of Manhattan.’
‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘How interesting.’
I could have said lots of things, as I offered the olives to David and stole a glance at him. Like, do you remember that gorgeous day we walked all the way from your apartment in Jane Street up to Central Park, from the south to the north of the island, and how we stopped and had a burger half-way in a crusty old diner by the Empire State Building, between two Persian-carpet shops? And if you do remember that, what do you think about it now? He smiled briefly at me, as he took an olive, then asked Jess about her course. I went into the kitchen and started to lay the table.
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