“Yeah, sure,” he said, deciding to go to the toilet later. Then he remembered himself. “Fancy a drink?”
“Oh yeah. A Grolsch, cheers.”
“Right.” He got up slowly and made his way to the bar where he ordered two pints. He didn’t want another pint, but he couldn’t very well order one for her and then order himself a Diet Coke, could he? And he didn’t want to have to mention that he’d already had two pints (not counting the swift swig of gin at home before coming out) while waiting for her. It might embarrass her.
He walked back slowly with his two glasses, then just had to give in and go to the Gents. He couldn’t help noticing other blokes eyeing Jennifer up as he made his careful way across the room, and wondered, somewhere in the dim recesses of his clogged up mind, why that didn’t make him feel as proud as he thought it would.
“I do think you’ll love the dress,” Dan’s mum told him.
“Good.” He stared at his whisky glass.
His mum nodded. “Frightening times,” she murmured. “Frightening times.”
Dan looked up at her, the late Sunday sun behind her casting a coral haze over the garden. “What makes you say that?”
She smiled. “I just remember how I felt before marrying your father.”
“You were frightened?”
“Of course! It’s terrifying, marriage.”
Dan couldn’t believe his ears. Confusing, yes, a roller-coaster of emotions, yes. But terrifying?
His mum smiled, shaking her head. “You do make me laugh, you young people. You always assume we had none of the same feelings as you do. But you’re more like me than anyone else I know.”
Dan took this in slowly. “I thought I was more like Dad,” he said quietly.
His mum scoffed. “Like your father? You’re nothing like your father. You’re all me.” Dan pondered this for some while, idly looking at the still garden. “That’s why,” his mum continued quietly, “I thought you’d never marry.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You’re a male version of me and if I’d had to do the asking it would never have happened.”
“Wow.”
“But you’ve done us proud.”
“I know.”
“Geraldine’s a very special lady.”
“Yes.”
“And being terrified is just part of getting married. If you’re anything like me. Which you are.”
“How did you get through…the terror part?”
His mother didn’t hesitate. “You just have to believe in fate,” she said firmly. “This was meant to be. If it wasn’t meant to be it wouldn’t have happened.”
“But I don’t believe in fate.”
“Well, you have to.”
“Right.”
“Just tell yourself: This was meant to be. If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t have happened. Repeat it to yourself in your darkest moments.”
Dan wished he’d known that before Sandy’s wedding. He pictured himself back there, standing at the bar after that kiss with Katie. He’d been shaking with exhilaration, preparing to go back, open his heart to her like she just had with him, and break it off with Gerry. Again. Up till then, he’d convinced himself the kiss with Katie hadn’t been as good as he’d remembered. He was right. It was better. Then, when he’d found her gone, he’d raced up to his room, thinking she must have thought he’d gone there and tried to follow him—but no Katie. Then just when he thought he’d go back down and try and find her, he’d heard voices in her room. Were she and Hugh going to sleep together? After that kiss? Would she tell Hugh? Was she with him? He had to know.
When the voices stopped, he’d started to knock quietly on their door at intervals, hoping it would only be heard by Katie, but to no avail. Half an hour later, utterly confused, he had no choice but to go to bed, his mind and body reliving her words and that kiss. He must have got about one hour’s sleep. He told himself he’d wait till he saw Katie in the morning, get himself sorted out. He fell asleep at about 6.30, woke soon after, didn’t bother shaving, just showered and dressed, and then knocked lightly on Katie and Hugh’s door again before going downstairs. No bloody answer. He leaned his head against their door. Was she in bed with Hugh? Were they sharing that bed? He couldn’t bear this. She’d done it to him again.
In desperation he decided to go for a fast walk round the grounds, because he couldn’t sit in his room any more and he had to get away from theirs. He rushed downstairs and on his way out, to his amazement, saw Katie sitting on her own in the dining room, leisurely perusing the breakfast menu. He stared at her for a few moments through the glass before feeling brave enough to go in. After breakfast he phoned Gerry. She’d been so happy to hear from him that it was a comfort just to hear her voice and he completely forgot to feel guilty about kissing Katie.
His mum cut him another piece of chocolate pudding. If she was right and what was meant to be would be, it made everything so much easier. One misunderstanding could be put down to bad luck; but two? If he was meant to be with Katie, none of this confusion would have happened and they’d be together, right? They just weren’t meant to be.
As he munched through his chocolate pudding, he thought back to that disastrous first date and Katie’s so-called “panic attack.” Did she really have a panic attack? He didn’t know whether to believe that story or not now. After she’d abandoned him in that restaurant, he’d never felt more lonely in his life. Like the proverbial motherless child. He hadn’t been able to eat or sleep properly for weeks. It was worse than any relationship break-up he’d ever known. Which was why, when Geraldine had called the next morning, he’d almost fallen into the safety of her arms again. It had only taken them a month to get back into the old rhythm. He’d hardly noticed it happen. Was that what it was like when it was The One? He had said then and there that he never wanted to go through another night like that—and, thanks to Katie Simmonds, that was just what he had done. Better to stay away from girls like her. Gerry was good for him. She was meant to be.
Yes, he was much more like his mother than he’d realized. He tried to imagine what she’d been like, a shy seventeen-year-old girl from a village coming to live with her successful new husband, almost fifteen years her senior and already a name in the city. And yet she’d done it.
“Mum,” he asked gently, “have you ever regretted your choice?”
“Of course not, dear. I was just being a young silly.” She gave a little chuckle and whispered, “Scared of making love for the first time.”
It was a bit like making love, thought Katie, this writing lark. It was all about letting go, allowing yourself to be utterly exposed, vulnerable, about losing yourself in the moment. Poor Jon, maybe that’s why he found it so hard. She gave a tiny gasp. Oh dear! Maybe he was a lousy lover. Maybe she should tell him—in a kindly way of course. Just mention that there are some people suited to writing and some who aren’t. It’s like some people being able to climb Everest and some who just don’t have the lung capacity. Or the motivation. Or dedication. Or they don’t like the cold. It’s nothing specific. Writing isn’t just about writing; she knew that now. It was about a whole host of factors, and all you need is one of those vital factors to be missing and the entire edifice collapses—like a house of cards! Yes! It was exactly like a house of cards! (She should carry a notebook around with her all the time, she was coming out with pearls.) And you need every single card to make that house—and the lowest cards are as important as the top one—in fact they’re probably more important. And if just one of those cards isn’t in place properly, the whole lot falls down. It was tragic really when you thought about it. Poor poor Jon, she thought, as she spread her fingers over the keyboard.
Matt and Jennifer linked arms as they made their slow way back to her parents’ house. Matt was glad they’d linked arms, partly because it showed she didn’t mind touching him and partly because it stopped him falling on his face.
He’d been glad that she hadn’t felt the need to tell
him why she was three-quarters of an hour late. It showed a sense of trust, a sense of ease that proved she already felt natural with him. He’d been fascinated to hear so many details about her crappy job and her crappy friend. He’d always guessed she and Eva weren’t bosom buddies. He’d been a bit shocked to discover that not only was Jennifer almost two years older than he was, but she wasn’t on some gap year, or doing some temporary job to fill in her holidays, she had completely left school and was working full time. Later on, he decided—maybe when she came up to see him at university—he’d try and convince her to give education another go. She’d admire him for helping her change her life.
Going up the hill, they started singing some pub song which ended in hysterics by the time they reached her parents’ road. She started giggling and shushing him as they got nearer to her home, and putting her fingers to his lips to keep him quiet. It was so nice he sang even louder. He could hardly believe it—her lips were inches away from his. Was this going to end well? Was he actually going to get a snog with the divine Jennifer? He sang louder still.
Hugh woke, dry-mouthed and bleary-eyed, to a dark, cold, empty room. He turned to his new clock, which lay on an upturned cardboard box. Almost 10. He felt crap. And hungry. He’d make himself some toast in his cheap new Argos toaster. God, it was the silence he hated most. He leaned over to his remote control and switched on his cheap new telly from the bed. Maxine had insisted they be able to watch telly in bed and he was bloody grateful now. It was some crappy reality show—did anyone really watch them?—but it was good background noise. Good to see other losers in the world. He put on his slippers and a big loose sweatshirt and went downstairs.
The kitchen was stunning, even without any of its designer appliances and furniture. It had taken them weeks to decide on the tiles and cupboard doors and he had to hand it to Maxine, she’d got it right. He flicked the switch for the lights and filled up his cheap new kettle, turning on his cheap new telly with the remote by the sink. Someone in the reality show was crying. Hugh turned to watch as the kettle boiled. Two girls comforted another girl who was distraught because she’d been called a rude name. Lucky bitch, he thought. How old was she? She looked about nineteen. He wished he was nineteen again and upset because someone had called him a rude name. Better than having your whole life crumble round your ears. The kettle boiled and he realized he hadn’t put the toast on. He went to the American-style fridge, big enough for a family yet stylish enough for a young London couple. Maxine hadn’t taken it with everything else because there hadn’t been enough room in the carpenter’s van. It had half a loaf of bread and some moldy cheese in it. He took two slices and put them in his cheap new toaster and turned back to the telly. The girl was saying that she wanted to go home. Lucky bitch, he thought. I’m at home and I fucking hate it. He took his toast upstairs, turning off all the lights as he went. He sat in his bed, drinking tea, eating toast and watching Big Brother. They were now cooking together, laughing and jostling loudly for attention. Lucky bastards, he thought as he lay down in his cheap new bed and went to sleep.
Katie couldn’t believe literary critics. First they put you on a pedestal you didn’t ask to be on, critically acclaiming your first book and calling you a debut wonder, and then they pan your second book, calling you a has-been. I mean give a girl a break. Haven’t they heard of the Curse of the Second Book? How could you enjoy the gift you’ve been born with when you have the whole of the country on the edge of their seats, waiting for you to fail? And anyway, she’d be willing to bet that none of them could do it. Oh yes, it was easy to criticize someone else, but to actually put yourself on the line? She didn’t think so. You see, the trick was learning how to write without the ghosts of your readers haunting you. All those ex-boyfriends, all those potential boyfriends, all the would-be ex-boyfriends, all your old friends, your old enemies, your family, all those sad critics—all those people with crinkly smiles and hazel-flecked eyes…all those people everywhere. How could you keep sense of who you were while at the same time letting go? And all the endless questions—Are the characters fictional? Were you using your book as catharsis? Or revenge? Was that me in the book? Was that your mother? Is that Dan?
Oh! It was too much to bear. How would they like it if she started publicly criticizing their jobs…“I opened Mr. Smith’s reviews of this week’s best paperbacks with dread and awe—could he possibly have been as accurate and fulsome as last week?”
The truth was, did any writer actually enjoy writing? It was one of those eternal questions. She was nothing but a victim of her gift. She didn’t choose it, it chose her. That’s right—it had chosen her.
Katie spread her hands over the keyboard and began again.
Matt was halfway back down the street before he was even able to take in what had happened. Oh sweet Jesus, she was a goddess. And he should know; he’d felt her breasts. He looked at his hands, reliving the moment.
He’d just stood there, not expecting anything, just waiting to say goodnight and have her peck him on the cheek if he was lucky—but no! She’d swayed toward him and landed him one right on the lips, one of those kisses you know means business, leaving a boy in no doubt whatsoever of where he stood.
Then, when he’d imagined it was all over for this lifetime, it went into overdrive, like she’d suddenly sold her soul to the Devil. Talk about being in the right place at the right time. He’d lost himself totally in the moment, while trying to etch it in his mind forever. He remembered thinking that the rest of his life didn’t matter any more. None of it mattered. This was what it was all about. This was real and raw, this was life, this was death, this was—
Then he’d got her zip stuck.
Precious seconds were lost and then the hall light came on in her parents’ house and she was sucking herself away from him, unclamping his hands from that body, whizzing round, opening the front door and grinning a cheery goodnight at him. He’d stood in the late summer evening, staring at the closed door in front of him, dazed, confused and so happy he wanted to live forever and so happy he was ready to die.
“Hello!” said Jon, diving on to Katie’s bed.
There was no answer. He looked up.
“You all right?”
Katie was sitting at her desk, her arms slumped to her side, her head on the keyboard. She lifted her head suddenly, like a Jack-in-a-box.
“You all right? You missed a cracking Big Brother. They made Bobby cry.”
“Hunugh,” she said.
“How’s it going?”
Katie’s head fell on to the keyboard again. “One sentence.”
Jon lay back on the bed and laughed. Katie started moaning. “And it’s lousy,” she wailed. “It took me four hours and it’s lousy. I just reread it after a break—you know, for some distance—and…” she started to weep, “it hasn’t got a verb in it.”
Jon felt his shoulders lighten. “Welcome,” he sighed, “to my world.”
Chapter 24
DAN STARED AT HIS REFLECTION IN THE JEWELER’S WINDOW, IMAGINING what Katie would be doing at the café now. It had been a whole week since Sandy’s wedding and once they’d both got back to work it had been far easier to pretend that it just hadn’t happened. In fact, they’d hardly spoken to each other. He’d decided that the kiss really had been a drunken mistake on her part and she was now probably scared that he might come after her. The last thing he wanted to do was turn into another Hugh, so he had made a concerted effort all week to appear as indifferent to her as possible. In fact, he’d come close to telling her about his engagement just so that they could be normal with each other again, but he’d never been alone with her long enough. No, he’d wait until it was somehow relevant—maybe tell everyone at work together. Meanwhile, his wedding plans were hotting up, which was really helping to take his mind off the kiss. That and his mother’s mantra.
Standing outside the jeweller’s on a bright Saturday morning, he was suddenly assaulted by the image of Katie coming down the ho
tel stairs in that ball-gown. He let out a long, slow sigh.
“I know,” sighed Geraldine, bending forward beside him. “It’s so hard isn’t it?” He looked down at her. She was staring hard at the rings in the window her neck slowly extended like a feeding tortoise.
“Hmm,” she murmured. “You see, I love that one, but it’s just like Sandy’s—only of course much bigger—and the last thing I want is her to think I’m copying her. As if. But it is wonderful. Unless, maybe it’s a bit too big. I mean I don’t want to have to take it off if I’m on the tube, do I? God Sandy would be green. But then, I’m bound to find one that’s similar, aren’t I? I mean that is today’s look. Then again, should I go for something so fashionable? Or should I go for a timeless classic instead? I mean I do have to love it in fifty years’ time.”
The mantra, the mantra, the mantra.
“I never thought it would be so difficult.” She stood up tall, a thought occurring to her. “Which one do you prefer?” she asked Dan. He looked at the trayful of rings.
“That one.”
“Which one?”
“That one.”
“Which one?”
Dan nodded violently toward a ring. “That one!”
“It’s no bloody use just repeating yourself. Which one are you talking about?”
“The one with the wotsits.”
“Do you mean diamonds, Daniel?”
“Yes.”
She gave him one of her looks. “They’ve all got diamonds and you’re being a dickhead.”
He cocked his head at her. “What does that make you,” he asked. “Mrs. Dickhead?”
“Dan, what the hell is your problem?”
There was no ignoring that tone; he’d gone and done it again.
“My problem,” he said slowly, “is should we be buying rings at all if we can’t do it without name-calling?”
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