‘Where are you?’ I shouted, ‘Thanks for ruining my weekend! I’d be diving at the bottom of the sea if I hadn’t agreed to come on a romantic weekend away. So much for romance; so far I’ve seen the inside of my living room!’
‘Olivia, stop shouting I can explain, I couldn’t get hold of you to tell you that everything has gone tits up, literally five months of work has literally gone down the toilet. I’m sorry, Olivia, and I’m sorry to say that if you want to be with me then you need to understand that, as much as I hate it, work sometimes has to take precedence over life. I don’t like it and you don’t like it but that’s the way it is – Yes? Now I’m still here from the day before. Our team had to put in an all-nighter – we literally haven’t left the office to even shower. All I’ve eaten in the last twenty-four hours has been Chinese takeaway at eleven last night. I’m knackered, hungry and what’s worse I stink.’
Mark paused and I could hear the background banter with his workmates over whether he stank or not.
‘I know you’re disappointed and really I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you, I’m just stuck here,’ he continued. ‘Let me make it up to you. I’m almost finished but I can’t make today as I really need to sleep. Please understand and let me take you to the Wolsey for breakfast?’
‘Breakfast?’
‘How about this: I’ll sacrifice sleep for you and I’ll be at yours for around ten tonight and we’ll go out whenever we get up, sound good? We’ll spend all day together, we’ll go for walks, read the Sunday newspapers in the pub just as you enjoy doing. Good, yes? I’m sorry again. I hate the idea that I disappointed you but if you want to be with me then this is the price – hopefully in time you’ll see it’s just a small price… Yes? Say you agree with me…’
‘Mmm, it’d better be a good spot by the window.’
It was 2.07pm when I put the phone down which was seven minutes after James and Chris took off from Luton Airport for my diving holiday.
At 4.11pm Interflora arrived with a dozen red roses and a teddy bear holding a card with a heart and the words, ‘I’m sorry’ written across it. I hugged the bear and decided it was indeed a small price to pay for a lifetime of cuddles.
Mark did turn up that evening but we did not go for breakfast at the Wolsey as Mark wanted a lie in until 11am. We did spend Sunday together but we didn’t go for a Sunday walk or find a pub to read newspapers. Instead Mark watched TV for hours.
Conversation with Mark was kept to a basic level whilst he relaxed in my flat. In the silence of watching Sunday television I caught myself looking at the clock and wondering how James was getting on – if he’d found the dive centre yet? If the next day dive had been planned? I thought about whether he was lying on a sun lounger by the infinity pool and perhaps contemplating drinking a cool beer whilst basking in the sun. Was he happy or was he still angry that his best friend had abandoned him in favour of a man who was slouched in grey tracksuit bottoms watching Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook and who hadn’t spoken a word for over an hour.
At one point I wondered how long it had been since Mark had blinked as the muscles in his face appeared to have disappeared; his forehead, eyes, cheeks and mouth were all slouched upon his face. The only part of Mark’s body which moved was his chest as he breathed in and out again and again and again.
I too, hadn’t spoken for an hour other than to say I liked Fern Britton. I was bored in my flat, which was made worse by torturing myself with the comparison of where I could be. By three o’clock this boredom changed to anger. After I had painted my nails ‘deep azure’, I started to fidget with frustration; I even attempted to clean the flat which, at any other time, was a task beyond my interest and ability – especially as my nails were freshly painted. This sparked some reaction from Mark.
‘I hate your flat, always have done,’ he said.
‘Mark, my flat may be one up from a Beirut prison cell but I don’t care – I’m bored and I need to escape its confines where, thanks to you, I’ve sat in squalor for the past forty-eight hours and you – you have managed less than fifteen. But hey, thanks for pointing out you hate my flat. Move your feet you’re squashing Tatiana’s cigarette boxes.’
Mark found life in his legs and jumped to his feet.
‘You’re right, once more. I’m sorry.’ He grabbed my face and held it captive in his hands. ‘Listen I leave in one hour. I’m meeting the guys at five and I’d love you to meet them, yes? Wear your blue jeans with that silky top of yours. And put your hair up. I like it that way.’
‘Seriously?’ I said. ‘That’s what’s on offer? The pub?’
‘Come on my Red, I know I’ve screwed up but let me take you out to meet my mates so they can be jealous at the catch I’ve caught.
‘Don’t look angry, we’ve discussed this – it’s work. If you don’t like it then you need to find someone who doesn’t have such a demanding job – teacher maybe, how about a boring accountant? He’ll be home by five. Can my Olivia put up with someone like that? Ah, that’s better, I see a smile from my lady! Come on, get yourself dressed and I’ll show you off.’
I pulled myself away and got dressed to meet his friends but I was still angry that my weekend had dribbled away to a pub drink and so I adopted a sullen pout for the final hours of Sunday as punishment to Mark.
His friends were the same type of men I had met on countless occasions at any London club; they were mainly overweight, they were all wearing jeans, a white shirt and a tweed sports jacket. Their laughter competed for supremacy in the bar with surrounding polite conversation. Other people looked at our group with annoyed sideways glances when their conversations were interrupted by raucous laughter.
Mark finally declared to his clan that he needed to get back home to prepare for a meeting in the morning. As we left the bar Mark turned to me.
‘They like you, they think you’re hot.’
‘I’m surprised as they probably said all of two words to me. Oh, and I would have appreciated the odd acknowledgment from you.’
I was, however, slightly surprised at their approval as the sullen pout I had before entering the pub had turned into an angry grimace by the time I left.
‘I’m not returning to your flat,’ he said bluntly. ‘As I said, the only reason you don’t have a rat problem is because even they refuse to enter that hole.’
‘Don’t then.’ I looked away from him as I didn’t want him to see that I sympathised because even I didn’t want to return to the nicotine-stained ashtray I reluctantly called home.
‘Ah, come on, please cheer up Olivia. I know you are still angry with me and I’d be angry if I were you. I’m embarrassed by how things have gone so wrong over the last week.
I’m genuinely really worried that I might have upset you. I need you and I can’t have you living where I can’t see you whenever I want, I’m asking would you like to stay with me?’ His left hand pulled my hand towards him,
‘I don’t know, I have nothing with me for the night.’
Mark smiled and drew me nearer, ‘No, not the night. I want you to stay as long as you like Olivia.’
Those few words made my heart beat faster than any twinkling star shining upon a Parisian glass of champagne. The sky above me was a murky grey, cloud covered the night moon but I didn’t care and I no longer cared that my diving holiday with James had been replaced by a pub drink. I was going to live with Mark.
It took me my one week’s leave to pack my possessions and move from Baker Street to Embankment. Tatiana said very little and Carolanne kept reassuring me that there was always a home here should I need to return. Even before I had left, the thought of returning seemed too depressing to contemplate and I resolved that should I have to leave Mark’s flat for any reason then I would find anywhere other than a flat that had been decorated by a collection of smokers’ lungs.
Mark’s flat was a huge modern apartment
which overlooked the River Thames. The building appeared to be predominantly made from glass and steel girders. There was a window cleaner permanently employed just to clean the building and on occasions I would see him dangling from various apartments.
The lobby of Mark’s building was swathed in beech wood which had been polished to beyond its natural shine; at times I wondered whether it was indeed fake and if it was just a cheap plastic which covered everywhere from the floor to the reception desk and beyond to the lifts. Naturally, Mark’s apartment was on the top floor. Its front door was the same wood as the rest of the building but inside, the wood had been replaced by an almost white marble with a grey vein running through the stone. This covered all the floors apart from the bedroom which had a cream, thick pile carpet.
The apartment had a mezzanine floor with a balcony which looked down upon the living area and onto red leather sofas. Mark’s modern art collection covered the whitewashed walls and, together with his sofas, these were the only splash of colour in his home. Outside great waves of colour from the sunrise or sunset were displayed in all their magnificence by the huge windows and doors which opened up onto a huge balcony. I often felt the urge to step outside whenever the sun came up to say hello or dropped to say goodnight. I needed to step out of the flat to breathe in the sun, which set over the tranquillity of the River Thames. The water and the sun were the only touch of Mother Nature in the elegance of the man-made structures surrounding me.
Opposite Mark’s apartment lay London’s business district and each side was the regal splendour of Sir Christopher Wren’s architectural imagination, from elegant bridges to St Paul’s Cathedral. I am not sure which I admire more: the pull of a genius’s structural imagination or God’s architecture. Over the years both have given me great comfort.
James returned from Egypt and within hours he had contacted me to find out how my trip to Paris went. I couldn’t meet him for a further week because of the move but finally we met at our usual coffee shop. I was too excited to let him speak first or even kiss me hello. I just wanted to share with him all that had happened and for him to feel some of my happiness that was spilling out from within me.
‘He didn’t take me to Paris, before you ask but, more importantly, I don’t care as guess what! I’m no longer living with Tatiana and I’ve moved in with Mark… oh, hurry up and sit down James, just throw your coat down. Now, tell me what you think?!’ I exploded. James seemed laborious in his movements. As he sat down he muttered, ‘Mmm, if that’s what you want.’
I caught the subtle shake of his head.
‘So, it’s serious then?’ His tone was hard and his expression was dull and uninterested.
‘Of course! I don’t get it, what is the problem people have with Mark? He’s sweet, generous, kind and oh James, he is so romantic – I’ve not cooked yet as he is always taking me out to these amazing restaurants. Two nights ago he picked me up from work – complete surprise by the way – in a chauffer-driven car (albeit from his work) and took me to ‘Le Brams’ in Marlow… Amazing!!’
James rolled his eyes then searched for his wallet to buy coffee.
‘On me,’ I said. ‘My rent has halved since moving in as Mark is only asking for the bills to be paid for.’
‘Really? The multi-millionaire is charging you rent? Nice!’
‘On my insistence.’
‘You can do better, Olive.’
‘Better? How? He’s rich, he’s successful and I now get to live in the most incredible place in London that people pass and actually stop to read the inscription above the entrance of the building then look up to stare in awe. And I now live there… me!’
‘Whatever, Ol. I need to make a move. I got Chris coming round later and I don’t’ want him thinking I live in a pigsty cos I don’t’ have an inscription above my door, so best get back to clean up.’
‘Now you’re being childish. Snap back to being the adult, plus I know you’re lying as I know Chris is in Wales at the moment so instead come to my new flat and tell me all about Taba and all I missed.’
‘Do I have to? I’ve managed to dodge Tatiana all these years so I’d like to continue by dodging Mr Sunshine.’
I detected a hint of a smile beneath his beard.
‘Don’t worry about Mark. He’s not there as he has a corporate golf weekend and won’t be back till Tuesday.’
‘Away already? Love really is a happy garden of togetherness.’
I know I could have retaliated but I didn’t have a defence and I didn’t want James to sully my image of Mark and his apartment. I wanted to keep them both on the top rating programme I had playing in my head.
I saw Mark every day for the first week then, for the following three months of living with Mark, I saw him only five times. When I did, he promised that when a particular project was over and various weekend commitments had been accomplished then he would take me away somewhere and he would treat me to something special. He didn’t elaborate on where we would go or what my special treat was but it satisfied me for those three months; especially as, contrary to James’ scepticism, at the end of these three months Mark presented me with a gift. It was still wrapped in the envelope it had arrived in. I tore open the wrapping paper to reveal my own Coutts credit card with my name engraved in tiny letters beneath Mark’s bank account number. I looked up at Mark who was grinning with pride. His dark eyes squinted from the Saturday summer sunrise light that filled our bedroom. I was still in bed when he gave me my present and as soon as it was lying in my hand he gushed, ‘It’s yours. Go out for lunch, dinner or even breakfast on me. I thought you needed one as I know that little job of yours doesn’t pay well and now maybe you can cut down your hours and shop to your heart’s delight.’
Mark seemed so pleased with himself:
‘You can buy clothes and whatever, in fact I have a summer ball in a few weeks’ time, and it’s at the Imperial War Museum so it should be a laugh seeing all the artefacts decorated. They’re usually a laugh so come, and buy yourself something sexy but elegant. I like black dresses, yeah, maybe a tight black cocktail dress. Actually no, make it long with a slit to show off your legs. A bit like that blue one you’ve got, but black.’
‘It comes in black,’ I replied.
I wanted to hug him and scream, ‘Thank you, this is the best present anyone could give me,’ but instead I kissed his cheek.
I calculated, whilst fondling my credit card and Mark cooking his full English breakfast, that I would be the perfect girlfriend: I would listen calmly to his woes, wait on him whenever he was home, always be available for work functions and now that I had access to a perfect wardrobe then I would dress beautifully, just for my Mark, just the way he liked.
CHAPTER TWELVE
My life altered considerably after receiving my credit card. I continued working at Liberty’s but on reduced hours from Monday to Wednesday. Mark conceded that I enjoyed working and so what was the necessity to leave?
I no longer went to London clubs as it meant going by myself; James hated them, my sister was never available, Carolanne had started seeing Toby, an accountant for KPMG (but who had aspirations to brew his own beer by the coast). The only person left was Tatiana but she had replaced me with Renka and they trawled the London circuit together.
I wanted to keep my spare time for Mark; I didn’t want to waste a drop traipsing round London night life that no longer suited a woman in her late twenties with a boyfriend. The only time I really wanted to go was with Mark, but he told me those nights were reserved for ‘the lads’.
One thing certainly remained and that was my bust sucking machine which I used whenever Mark was away. But after nearly five years of having it, I had not increased in size.
To accentuate my paranoia, the other women in my apartment block were all glamorous, elegant and well-endowed. I avoided these women, which was easy to do as if I did pass any wife in the
hallway, lift or lobby then we would merely offer a cursory nod to one another (in the years I lived there that was the only interaction I had with anyone apart from Joan or Peter, the lobby receptionists, with whom I enjoyed a vacant chat about the weather or how the seasons were changing).
‘If you’re that paranoid then get a boob job, Olivia,’ Mark said whilst replying to a stack of emails one evening.
‘Where did that come from?’ I asked.
‘You think I’ve not noticed?’ He snorted. ‘Don’t look hurt, I’m trying to help you. You don’t like something then change it. In fact, you should talk to Patrick’s wife; don’t know her name, blonde woman.’
‘Why? Has she had a boob job?’ I asked,
‘No idea but she’s got a great pair, so you could ask her for her size or whatever.’
‘Thanks for that comment. Now I just feel even more inadequate than I did thirty seconds ago,’ I said.
‘Well, like I said, do something about it. You don’t want to be unhappy all your life do you?’ he said casually, returning to his emails.
‘But that seems so fake, so artificial to have silicone plastic stuffed inside me and trust me, I’ve thought about it. Is it not better to keep some things natural as Mother Nature designed me?’
‘Aah, Olivia,’ he began, ‘you do talk crap when you want to and you’re wrong. Most women I know have man-made boobs; even my mum has them. In fact, she declared that it was from having me that she needed the lift,’ he huffed.
This was a woman whom I’d never met and according to Mark I never would as she lives in Switzerland with her new husband. To this day, all I know about her is she likes skiing, she has a boob job and looks many years younger than her twenty-year junior husband.
The Society Game Page 13
