by Adele Parks
‘So this isn’t about us at all, it’s another row about Michael,’ said Jack.
Martha glared at him. She held tightly to the quilt cover, her knuckles white with strain and tension. Didn’t he see she couldn’t separate the two things in her mind as easily as that? Men compartmentalized, women bled.
‘Martha, I’ve never been anything other than fair with you. I’ve always tried to be absolutely clear. To be honest, it’s easy to be good to you, you deserve it.’
‘Yes, you’re so damn fair and nice and honorable. I don’t dispute your honesty. But didn’t you know that that would simply make me expect… hope for more?’
‘Are you suggesting I should have lied and treated you badly?’
‘Well, at least I would have known where I stood.’
‘Martha, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘And there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘I love you. I want to distract myself from this truth, but I can’t. I know I should be cooler and I know I should wait and I know all the sensible stuff, but the thing is, I love you, Jack. I really do. I love you.’
This was his cue to say he loved her too.
He didn’t.
Martha cursed the day she was a twinkle in her father’s eye. But it was too late. The words were out of her mouth and into their life. She’d told him she loved him.
Three times.
Shit.
She decided that her only chance was to fake some bravado and, like a visit to the dentist, remind herself that this would all soon be over. ‘What?’ she demanded.
Jack stayed silent and stared at the duvet cover.
His silence forced her to fill in the space. ‘And I know we agreed that this was just a bit of fun, but you never can tell, sometimes the unexpected happens and sometimes the unexpected is damn good and we are. I know that you care for me too.’
‘I do.’
‘You make love with me, you don’t fuck me.’
‘I know.’
Then he went silent again. Martha felt miserable. Obviously, if he loved her, now was the moment to tell her. Or even if he wasn’t sure he loved her yet, but thought that he might love her one day, then this was the moment to tell her. He stayed silent. The silence stretched between them for what seemed like an eternity. Certainly a long time. Too long. Martha felt the humiliation creep up through her toes. It clung and stained like tar, and then settled in a heavy lump in her stomach as though she’d swallowed enough to resurface the M1.
‘Oh, forget I ever said anything, Jack,’ she spat. ‘You’re all the same in the end.’
‘Who are?’
‘You know.’
‘Say it, Martha. Articulate that ridiculous sexist, bizarre, unscientific thought.’
‘Men. Men are all the same in the end.’
‘All bastards?’
‘All bastards.’
‘Michael really has won, Martha.’ With that, Jack jumped out of bed and walked into the bathroom. ‘I can’t discuss this now, I’m going to be late for my meeting.’
They ignored each other as Jack showered, dried himself and dressed. He picked up his wallet, phone and PalmPilot. Pausing at the door he said, ‘Will you meet me later?’
Martha kept her head under the duvet; she didn’t want him to see she was crying. He’d think she was crying because she cared that she’d totally disgraced herself, but in fact she was crying because she was angry and frustrated.
And because she cared that she’d totally disgraced herself.
‘I’ll be at that café on Union Square, the one we went to on Monday night. I’ll be there from four. I’ll wait for you.’ He opened the door.
‘Jack,’ called Martha, ‘there can be only one.’
‘I recognize that: it’s from Highlander,’ said Jack, pleased with himself.
‘No, Jack, it’s from my heart.’
45
Eliza had passed another hour with the Bianchis. But she was only there in body. Her mind was elsewhere, and her heart had stopped. She was the most stupid chick on the entire planet. Timing had never been her strong point. Why hadn’t she told Greg how she felt that time she saw him when they were Christmas shopping? It would have been easy, she could have just said, ‘I’m sick of dating pricks, will you loaf with me for ever?’ But she hadn’t, she’d whinged about credit-card bills and forgotten birthdays. She could have said something on Christmas Day; that was another great opportunity. OK, she couldn’t exactly drag him under the mistletoe, that would have been very uncool, but she could have given him some encouragement. The nicest thing she said to him was, ‘You look stupid in the red paper hat, here, have my blue one.’ Oh God, oh God, was there ever such an arrogant arse?
All the clichés were horribly accurate. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone. What was this other woman like? She hadn’t wanted to ask the Bianchis. They weren’t known for their tact. If the bitch was a five-foot-nine beauty, with flawless skin, a personal inheritance of millions and a contract with the Elite Modelling Agency, the Bianchis would probably make the mistake of thinking that Eliza would want to know that. Did this woman sleep in their bed? Well, of course she bloody did. Eliza wondered whether if she stood in the middle of the street in Shepherd’s Bush and actually kicked herself anyone would think it was strange behaviour. She doubted it; they’d probably think that she was a community-care patient and, in fact, she was a damn sight less correct in the head. Would this girl stroke Dog? Take him for walks? Drink out of Eliza’s glasses, the ones she’d bought in Habitat? Yes, yes, yes. This girl’s toothbrush was probably nuzzling up against Greg’s toothbrush at this very minute.
Eliza was not the type of girl to cry; she was more of a doer than that. She turned the buggy round and headed away from the Tube station and towards Greg’s flat.
She hammered on the door. No reply, although some of the paintwork did crumble and fall to the floor. She hammered louder, loud enough to wake someone having a little nap in Sydney, Australia. She did not give space to the possibility that Greg might be out. He wouldn’t be out; her will was stronger than that.
‘OK, coming,’ yelled Greg from behind the wooden door. ‘Hiya.’ As he opened the door he smiled a wide, genuine smile.
Eliza didn’t notice, she stomped past him into the flat, abandoning the children in the doorway. Eliza strode into the sitting room – it was empty. She took another couple of large paces and she was in the kitchen – uninhabited. She turned and strutted into the hall, held her breath, threw open the bedroom door – deserted. There was only the bathroom left; Eliza hesitated, she didn’t like the bathroom at the best of times, but needs must. She confidently flung open the door – all clear.
‘Looking for something?’ asked Greg. He sounded amused.
‘An earring,’ muttered Eliza. Then she paused and faced him.
Greg was smiling. Of course he was, he rarely did anything other than smile. He’d taken Mathew and Maisie out of the buggy. He was holding Maisie in his arms; she was nuzzling up against his goatee (facial hair that was the result of Greg not having yet made it to the bathroom that day, rather than a fashion statement); Mathew was looking for Dog. He found him asleep under the table in the kitchen, and he and Eliza swooped to pet Dog together.
‘What type of earring?’ asked Greg; he didn’t bother to hide his amusement, but he was polite enough to play along with Eliza’s charade as long as necessary.
Eliza glared at him; she knew she’d been rumbled, so she didn’t bother to elaborate further on her excuse. ‘I’ve just been to see the Bianchis,’ she said by way of explanation.
‘About time, they’re always asking after you.’
‘They seemed well. Unchanged.’
‘Nothing much changes around here, Liza.’
‘That’s not what they said,’ countered Eliza, cryptically. She carried on glaring at Greg and waited for his defence. He met her gaze but didn’t seem in the least
bit fazed or embarrassed. Eliza thought about this for a moment. Of course he wasn’t fazed or embarrassed, why should he be? So he had a new girlfriend. What did she expect? She could hardly be fired with indignation and outrage. She had dumped him, unceremoniously, unexpectedly, and from a great height. She’d done this six months ago, what did she think he was going to do? Behave like a monk for the rest of his life? Besides which, she’d dated, almost non-stop, for all the good it had done her. She’d even had sex. The memory made her shiver. So her hunt for Mr Perfect had been unsuccessful, of course it had. It was doomed from the start. Her Mr Perfect was never going to be a man whose biggest passion was rugby or fly-fishing. She’d never find a true spiritual partner amongst men whose only interest in spirits was how woody a particular malt was. Her Mr Perfect would not wear a tie. He would not drive a saloon car and however disappointing it was for Eliza to admit it, it was unlikely that her Mr Perfect would have started a pension policy aged twenty-one. That level of organization would simply turn her off.
Her Mr Perfect was more likely to be creative, relaxed, witty and, therefore, on occasion, a bit lazy and messy.
Greg.
Greg was her Mr Perfect.
‘Fancy a cuppa?’ asked Greg as though she’d been popping in to see him every week for months, and there was nothing unusual about her sudden arrival, nothing peculiar in the fact that she’d searched his home as if she was looking for the definitive answer to ‘What is love?’ – and, in a way, she had been.
‘Yeah, that’d be nice.’
Greg put Maisie on the floor and she scrambled towards Dog, thrilled with the opportunity to torture him alongside her brother. Eliza was just about to object – she could only imagine what filth the children would be crawling in – when she noticed that the carpet was clean. There were no dog hairs, no can rings, no empty, crushed cigarette packs. Eliza took a moment to have another look around. It wasn’t just the carpet that was clean. There was no fog of smoke, there was no stale, lingering smell of Dog sweat. In fact, the windows were open, allowing fresh air into the flat (or at least air as fresh as air ever gets in a huge city with over seven million inhabitants). There were no empty coffee cups; there weren’t even any sticky rings showing where the coffee cups had once rested. There were no pizza boxes; there weren’t even any flyers offering to take your credit card details in return for the service of delivering a curry to your settee.
Eliza bit her lip to cork the scream that wanted to erupt. She turned on her heel once again and rushed into the kitchen. Where were the towering stacks of dirty dishes? Why wasn’t the lino sticky? Oh God, the oven had been cleaned. She rushed through to the bedroom. The purpose of her last search had been to unearth ‘the New Woman’; Eliza had expected to catch Greg and ‘the New Woman’ in flagrante delicto– not that she’d thought through what she’d do if she had caught them in such a predicament.
However, in her haste to uncover what she’d expected, she’d failed to see the unexpected. The flat was clean. The bed was made; there were no sweaty socks or sticky undies on the floor. There was a smell of soap in the bathroom, aftershave in the bedroom, and Mr Muscle in the kitchen. Eliza was used to the flat smelling worse than a locker room.
Eliza dropped into the settee and leant forward, holding her head in her hands. This was worse than finding ‘the New Woman’, in a negligee, swinging from the lampshade. Not only did he have a New Woman but the New Woman had succeeded where Eliza had failed. The New Woman had persuaded Greg to clean up. Eliza started to cry. Silent tears slid down her cheeks, scalding her.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ asked Greg kindly as he returned to the sitting room with their cups of tea. He sat down next to Eliza and slipped his hand around her back. His warmth and kindness just made her want to howl.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ assured Eliza, wiping her tears and snotty nose on the back of her jacket sleeve. Greg leapt up for a box of tissues, but as he offered it to Eliza she started to sob again. Tissues! Proof positive of a woman’s intervention. There is no way on this earth that Greg would ever buy tissues. Eliza had her pride. That was all she had. She didn’t have a boyfriend, or a flat, or even a plan, but she did have her pride. She was not going to tell him what was the matter. ‘Martha’s away, I’m babysitting. The children woke up early today, well, every day actually, and I’m tired. Silly, I know. This childcare lark is harder than it looks, and I’m not very good at it.’
‘Looks like you’re doing a pretty good job to me.’
Eliza smiled, pleased to receive any praise, however little evidence it was based upon. ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked, fishing for further compliments.
Greg looked at the children; Eliza followed his gaze. Mathew was eating Dog’s chocolate drops, and Maisie had fallen asleep in his basket. Eliza knew for a fact that Martha would not approve. Hardly nutritional, hardly sanitary.
‘Well,’ Greg hesitated. ‘Both their shoes are on the right feet.’
Eliza grinned. ‘How are you?’ she asked, remembering her manners but hoping that he wouldn’t tell her. She really didn’t need the details on just how wonderfully sexed up and loved up he was right now.
‘Not bad at all.’ He smiled but didn’t elaborate.
Eliza was grateful for his sensitivity. They both fell silent, not that it was uncomfortable.
‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’ asked Greg suddenly.
‘To get through it without the loss of a limb or incurring any other serious injuries such as concussion or a fracture.’
Greg smiled. ‘We could take them to the zoo.’
‘We?’
‘Yes. You and me. I’m not doing anything better, and you’re not. I’ve missed the kids. But if you don’t want to–’
‘Great. No. Yes. I mean, yes, I want to, that’s a great idea. Two sets of hands are always better than one.’
And I’d like to rip your clothes off and take you on the futon, thought Eliza. But she didn’t say so; it didn’t seem like the right moment.
46
She wasn’t going to go. Why should she? She’d been made a fool of once, and once was once too often. It had been nice. Fun. But it was better all round if she just left it where it was. Hadn’t she begged Michael to stay, humiliated herself completely? Surely she should learn from that experience and then at least something would have come out of this whole sorry mess. She wasn’t going to waste a moment longer on a man who didn’t love her and only her. Naked friends had been all very well when she was in her – what did Eliza call it? – her recovery stage. And, yes, she was very grateful that her recovery stage had been spent with Jack. A Sex God with a good heart. But she’d recovered now. And the recovered Martha deserved more than a timeshare. The relationship had been a beautiful, amazing rebound relationship. That was all. Eliza had been right. Martha had been wrong, but she was grateful that she’d been wrong. If she’d listened to Eliza, she would have missed out on the best three months of her life.
True, he’d never lied to her, or hurt her, or let her down, and that was good of him. He’d recognized how vulnerable she was and he hadn’t abused her trust. But, then, he’d got a good deal too: Jack got unlimited, astonishing sex with a grateful, rampant divorcee. And she got, well, unlimited, rampant sex with an Adonis. The deal between her and Michael had been a little more prosaic, more sock-washing and bread-earning, less foreplay; but the principle had been the same. And as for her and Jack’s sharing doughnuts, laughing, chatting, reading, playing with the kids together, well, that had been a bonus. And as for that next bit, the bit that she found difficult to describe… The bit where she was sure that she was in love with him, that they were alike despite the outward appearances, were peas in a pod, well, she’d have to forgo all of that too if he didn’t love her.
Because she did deserve to be loved.
Martha’s cheeks burnt at the recollection of what she’d said. She’d told him she loved him and he’d ignored her. He hadn’t made any comment a
t all. She might just as well have said, ‘Funny weather we’re having, aren’t we? Strange the way there’s intermittent showers and then beautiful bright skies.’ Martha took little comfort in the fact that what she’d said was true.
So there was absolutely no point in meeting him at Union Square. The sensible thing for her to do now was get on a plane and go home to her children, her family, her friends, and get started on her real life. Which, thanks to Jack, would no longer be limited to jam-making and cake-decorating; she’d also include a little hip clothes-buying and DVD-watching. What would be the point of meeting him? Everything that could be said had been said, and more. Martha thought all this as she boarded the Subway. She took the R line, which did pass through Union Square – but she told herself she didn’t have to get off there, she could stay on and go to Soho and do a little more shopping before she left for JFK.
Yet again, she’d been deceived into thinking it was a warm day. It amazed her how her optimism won over experience, time after time, after time. The sky had been blue and bright for the ten minutes it had taken her to choose her outfit this morning. It was now bitingly cold. People in the carriage sat hunched in their own coldness. Of course, like London, no one struck up a conversation, preferring instead to read the third-rate adverts on the posters. Martha wondered what it would be like to live in a world where people talked to one another on the Tube, actually smiled at the buskers, even sung along. But she knew it was another romantic notion of hers, not unlike falling in love and hoping to be loved in return. Ridiculous, unrealistic.
