Any Way You Want Me

by Diamond, Lucy

  Oh yeah.

  Enough about him, anyway. I was actually out on my own, going for lunch with Becca and her new man! That was enough to think about right now. I was dying to know what Nick was going to be like. Becca had eclectic taste in men, to put it politely. She’d fallen in love with whey-faced poets and fake-tanned businessmen alike, would go on a date to a cutting-edge art ‘event’ or, just as happily, to a company golf day depending on who she was with. She’d date a slick, groomed Notting Hill lad one month and then be seen with a Burberry mac and wellies type the next. Becca just had two main criteria when it came to her men: good sex and fat wallets. Anything else – sense of humour, attractiveness, political preference – seemed to be optional extras from where I was standing.

  Nick had actually sounded quite promising the other night. What had it been? Six foot, six-pack, and sexy, or something similar. The package was good enough in those terms, but I wasn’t fooled. I’d learned the hard way, after years of being friends with Becca, that there still might be a shock in store for me when it came to actually meeting a new man. I hoped Nick wasn’t religious. Or depressed. Or really, really old.

  I jumped off the bus at the Common and strolled up to the tapas bar Becca had suggested, smiling and blinking at the unfamiliar sensation of sun on my face. I would have to dig out my sunglasses soon, I thought happily. And track down all my summer dresses, too. I’d missed out on a summer, clothes-wise. I’d sweated my way through the heat the year before, Nath budding and then blooming in my belly, and had lived in enormous maternity vest tops and stretchy skirts for months on end.

  But this year, I deserved some new clothes. And shoes. Oh boy, did I need some new shoes! I’d make an afternoon of it – drag the girls out to dither enjoyably over which type of heel to choose. Oh, I would be urban and hip and effortlessly stylish this summer. A chic London babe. Sequinned flip-flops and cool floaty dresses . . . Cropped trousers and wedge-heeled mules . . .

  ‘Hiya! Over here!’

  As I pushed open the restaurant door, I heard Becca’s voice above the low rumble of chatter and turned to see her waving and smiling in the far corner. I threaded my way through the lines of wooden tables, breathing in the scent of frying potatoes, bacon, rosemary. The walls were whitewashed and hung with kitschy Spanish souvenirs – grinning plastic donkeys with stuffed panniers, raffia sombreros, miniature guitars. No doubt it had been lauded in all the reviews as some kind of ironic celebration of tack, but it looked pretty naff to me. Like my nan’s old front room, but worse.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, finally making it across to their table. She stood up and grabbed my hands, then kissed me on both cheeks.

  ‘Hi, babe,’ she grinned, squeezing my fingers. ‘This is Nick.’

  He stood up, too, and held out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘And you,’ I replied.

  Good first impression, anyway. Open, friendly face. Seemed to have all his teeth, which was always a bonus. Sparkly eyes. Short, blond hair. Wide mouth, just the right shade of pink.

  I sat down hurriedly, aware that I was staring. Poor bloke, leave him alone. ‘So!’ I said brightly. ‘How are you two?’

  ‘Great. Just got up actually.’ There was a look between them. A secret lovers-only look. ‘We’ve only just got here ourselves so we haven’t ordered anything yet. Have a menu.’ Becca slid one across the table.

  ‘Lovely. Thanks.’

  She and Nick were holding hands and beaming at each other across the table. Bless. I scanned the menu, feeling hungrier by the second. It had been hours since my six-thirty breakfast with the bambinos.

  Patatas bravas

  Tortilla Española

  Jalapeños

  Chorizo a los Pimientos

  Pollo al Chilindrón

  ‘What does Chilindrón mean?’ I muttered, trying to dredge up some phrases from my stint in Mexico.

  ‘Chilindrón? Cooked with tomatoes, fresh peppers, chilli and aromatic spices,’ Nick told me.

  I raised my eyebrows, impressed. He was good. ‘Blimey. Are you fluent?’ I asked.

  He laughed. ‘No. The translation is underneath. There.’ He leaned over me to point at the menu and I caught a whiff of his aftershave, sharp and clean.

  I blushed chilli-red. I was so dim. How on earth had I managed to miss that?

  ‘He’s a fluent bullshitter, that’s what he is,’ Becca said affectionately, stroking his fingers. Her eyes didn’t leave him for a second.

  His face was a picture of feigned outrage. Who, me? ‘I think you’d better take that back, darlin’,’ he growled.

  I laughed. First impressions were definitely thumbs up. He was cheeky; I liked that in a man. Actually, I liked it in anyone. ‘What are we having, then?’ I asked. ‘Anyone made any decisions?’

  It wasn’t until Nick got up to go to the loo, midway through our feast of chorizo, tiger prawns, salad, garlic mushrooms and the rest of it, that Becca and I got a few minutes to ourselves.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ she asked, leaning over conspiratorially the nanosecond that Nick was out of earshot.

  ‘I like him,’ I said at once. It was such a relief that I was able to be honest about my opinion, after all the times I’d been forced to lie about Becca’s other weirdo boyfriends, that I started gushing effusively. ‘He’s great. Easy to talk to, funny, good-looking . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she smirked. ‘Oh, Sadie, it’s going really, really well. We have such a laugh – and it’s all just so . . . easy.’ Her lips shone with butter. ‘And hey, guess what, we’ve been talking about going away already. Rome!’

  ‘Rome?’ I echoed. I nearly choked on a mussel. ‘God, how utterly fantastic.’ I was thinking Vespas, ice creams, Trevi fountain. I was thinking Peroni beer, Colosseum, spaghetti. Alex and I had been to Rome one hot, dusty weekend years and years ago. Now I was back there like a shot. Scorchio!

  ‘I know!’ She was beaming again. Her face was animated, eyes bright as the words bubbled out of her. ‘I can’t wait. Just a dirty weekend, but I’ve gotta say, I like his style. I mean, dirty weekend in Britain or dirty weekend in Italy. Hmmm . . . Now, let me think . . .’

  ‘What, are you saying that Rome was his idea?’ I asked, eyes boggling. This man got better by the second. In fact, I was half starting to fall in love with him myself.

  ‘Yeah!’ She tipped her beer bottle up and drank. ‘It was totally his idea.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘I know. That’s what I thought. I hadn’t even dared go near the “weekend away” thing – thought I’d leave that for a couple of months at least. But he was planning to see some friends over there anyway so he said, come along. Just like that! All those shoe shops and bars. Imagine!’

  ‘I’m imagining,’ I replied. Oh boy, I was imagining. Remembering. Alex had had a promotion and pay rise at work, and had booked us plane tickets as a surprise. We’d stayed in a fourth-floor apartment near the Spanish Steps. If I closed my eyes, I knew I’d be straight back in there again – antique iron bed, white sheets, the whirr of the ceiling fan. And me and Alex, post-coital, giggling and cuddling. ‘You lucky cow,’ I said feelingly. ‘You lucky, lucky, lucky . . .’

  Nick came back at that moment. ‘So. Finished talking about me yet, ladies, or should I loiter outside the gents for a bit longer?’ he asked.

  ‘Talk about you? Don’t flatter yourself!’ Becca snorted, but her eyes were soft.

  He kissed her as he sat back on his chair, and I looked away quickly, eyes down at my plate. Rare and wonderful as it was to see my best friend so happy and loved up, I was starting to get a bad case of that green, hairy gooseberry feeling.

  I drank the last of my juice. ‘I’d better make a move,’ I said, pushing my chair back.

  ‘Already?’ Becca’s head jerked round towards me in surprise. ‘You’ve only been here about two minutes!’

  ‘I know but . . .’ I fished under the table for my bag. ‘I should get on, really.’<
br />
  Nick put his knife and fork down, an awkward smile hovering around his mouth. ‘I hope it’s not because you’re thinking three’s a crowd?’

  ‘No! I bloody hope you’re not!’ Becca put in. ‘That’s not why you’re going, is it? Three’s company, just as much as two’s company.’ She was gabbling. ‘Anyway, you haven’t even told us what’s happening with Jack yet.’

  I had tracked down my purse by then, and was sorting through it. ‘If I leave you a tenner . . .’ I started saying. Then I stopped. I could feel my nose wrinkling in surprise at the mention of his name. ‘Jack? Nothing. I told you last week.’

  ‘Jack? I thought your husband was called Alex.’ Nick frowned in confusion. ‘Or is that another Sadie?’

  ‘No, that’s me. Alex is my h— Well, we’re not married but, you know—’

  ‘Same difference,’ Becca said quickly. She knew how I felt about the marrying thing. ‘Come on, Sade, you’re stalling. Out with it.’ She turned to Nick. ‘Jack is Sadie’s bit on the side.’

  I flushed. ‘No, he is not,’ I said, feeling hot and flustered under Nick’s gaze. Actually, I felt out-and-out indignant. It was all very well laughing about this harmless, meaningless Jack flirtation with Cat and Becca, but it sounded awful, said out loud in this tapas bar to Nick. Awful and completely untrue, more to the point.

  ‘He is definitely not my bit on the side,’ I said firmly. I stood up, with some difficulty. The chairs and tables were packed so tightly into the room, I could hardly get out without elbowing someone in the back. ‘Look, here’s some money,’ I said. Nick started to say something about him paying for lunch, but I put a pile on the table before he could finish his sentence. I was sick of other people paying for me all the time. I did have money, even if I didn’t have a sodding job. My fingers were shaking for some reason, and the coins started bouncing and rolling everywhere.

  Becca grabbed my hand. ‘Sadie – I was only joking,’ she said. ‘About Jack, I mean. I was just teasing you. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Look – I’ll talk to you soon. Lovely to meet you, Nick. Bye.’ I grabbed my bag and jacket. ‘And enjoy Rome,’ I said over my shoulder, trying to sound as if I meant it, rather than spitting the words out.

  Becca shot me a puzzled look but let me go. When I went past the window seconds later, their heads were huddled together, low over the table, food ignored as they resumed their mutual love-in.

  I walked quickly down the high street. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be pleased for her that she and Nick were going to Rome? After all, I’d been there, done it, once upon a time. Why should I begrudge her the same happiness?

  I was jealous. I was a horrible, bitter, jealous best friend. I was . . . I was going to go home.

  Eight

  Back at the ranch, I greeted the kids and Alex loudly and over-enthusiastically, as if I’d been away for a week instead of just two hours.

  ‘That was quick,’ Alex said. He’d been painting with them, and the kitchen was covered in streaks of red, yellow and blue. ‘I thought you’d be hours yet. Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, not quite meeting him in the eye. I busied myself by wiping a smudge of yellow paint from under his nose. ‘He’s nice. Nick. They seem really happy.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  He shrugged. ‘You seem a bit weird. Twitchy.’

  ‘They’re going to Rome,’ I said, by way of explanation. I carried Molly at arm’s length to the sink and started scrubbing her fingers with washing-up liquid. She squealed and wriggled at the coldness of the water.

  ‘Ahh.’ He was silent. I knew that he, too, would be thinking of us holding hands as we strolled through the streets, pointing up at the beautiful buildings, pausing for a cappuccino here, stopping for a beer there . . . ‘Bastards,’ he said.

  I smiled at him gratefully. He understood. ‘I know,’ I said. My words fell out in a rush. ‘I was so jealous, Alex. I practically ran out of there because I couldn’t bear it.’ I patted Molly’s hands dry and put her down. ‘I feel a bit of an idiot, actually. I mean, I did go off quite abruptly. Nick probably thinks I’m a right nutter.’

  Alex came over and put his arms around me. ‘Well, he was going to find that out sometime, I suppose,’ he said, and then kissed the top of my head. ‘Only joking. Anyway, if it makes you feel any better – and I swear I’m not just saying this because of Becca and Nick – I was thinking of taking you away somewhere for your birthday this year. Not quite Rome, but—’

  ‘Where? Where?’

  ‘And I know we’d have to take the kids with us—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Maybe Cambridge. Or Brighton. It’s not exactly Rome, but . . .’

  I rested my cheek against him. ‘That would be lovely. Either. Good idea. Let’s get out of London for a bit.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He ruffled my hair in an annoying kind of way. ‘Let’s face it, we both know I’m right about—’

  ‘Everything, yes,’ I finished. ‘Well, whatever boosts your confidence, sweetheart. If you want me to go along with that, then I will. I’ll humour you for the sake of love. And also because you’re taking me out of south London.’

  Molly ran over at that moment, and butted our legs like a little goat. ‘Fuffuxy!’ she shouted. ‘Mummy say fuffuxy!’

  Alex pulled away and crouched down to her level. ‘What’s that, love? Mummy say what?’ he asked.

  ‘Fuffuxy!’ she yelled and started dancing around the room.

  Fuffuxy? Oh God . . . I started to laugh. ‘I have the horrible feeling,’ I groaned, ‘that our darling little daughter is trying to say, “For fuck’s sake”.’

  That night, while Alex was immersed in some awful sci-fi film on ITV, I borrowed his laptop and took it up to the bedroom. Once I was online, I went straight to the Friends Reunited website and deleted my details, just left my name. There. No more lying, I decided. No more Channel 4 nonsense. I hadn’t heard a word back from the TV production company and that was also good. I was going to end all that bollocks.

  I was just about to put on the rather less exciting truth instead – living with my partner, Alex, I’m a full-time mum to two children – when something stopped me.

  What was it Danny had said all those years ago?

  I think we’re too young to settle down, Sadie.

  Things have changed, Sadie.

  My fingers hovered over the keys as I remembered. My shoulders shaking with sobs. The drip, drip of tears onto my bare feet in the garden. The pain in my chest that stayed there for weeks, as if something had broken inside me. Feeling like I wanted to die with misery. The git.

  Things have changed? Not with me, they hadn’t. I’d have done anything for him. Stayed faithful all those miles south of him while we were doing our degrees. Oh, I would have done, given half a chance.

  Maybe . . . Maybe I’d tell just one or two more lies. To Danny. Just to Danny, to keep up appearances. He deserved it, anyway.

  Dear Dan,

  Nice to hear from you. Sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you – work has been mad lately. I’m doing two different programmes and they’re both being wrapped up this month so it’s been all heads down while we get them in the can.

  (Did telly people say ‘in the can’ or was that just in the film industry?)

  How about you, how’s the shop?

  (Ha. My job’s more glamorous than your job.)

  Next time I’m in Manchester I’ll definitely look you up. I travel about on business quite a bit. I wonder if we would recognize each other?!

  (Oh, I’d know him anywhere, though. Even now. Anywhere.)

  Same goes for you – if you’re ever back in London, let me know. Maybe we could do lunch?

  (Yes, lunch. I’d be far too busy in the evenings, love. I’ve moved on.)

  Sadie

  PS Don’t worry about the album. Keep it. Or sell it!

  I hit the Send button before I could change m
y mind. There. I’d done it. Friendly but not too friendly. Cool and adult. I was starting to enjoy this, I realized. I found myself hoping he would write back, so that I could keep the story going a little bit longer, spin out the shelf-life of my alter ego for just another few emails. Why not? It was only a bit of harmless fun, after all.

  Alex usually got home in time to help with the end-of-bath-time chaos, the wrestling of small people into pyjamas, the reading of stories and the drawn-out saga of bedtime. It was always the hardest part of the day and I was pretty much ready to faint with relief when I heard his key in the front door each evening. Hurrah! The cavalry back from the news front line at last.

  This week, though, he worked late on Monday and Tuesday so I had to get through the whole thing on my own each time – which was enough to send me straight to the wine in the fridge the very minute after I’d said my final night-nights. Then on Wednesday, I was up in the bathroom, drying Nathan and trying to get his vest back on without making him cry while simultaneously having an argument with my stroppy daughter about why she had to pull the plug out and put the bath toys away right now, when I heard that familiar clicking sound of key turning in lock downstairs. About bloody time.

  ‘Great, Dad’s home,’ I said to Molly. ‘Quick – let’s surprise him by having you all dry and dressed by the time he gets up here!’

  ‘No,’ she said, kicking her feet murderously through the bubbles. ‘Not dry and dressed.’

  ‘Yes, dry and dressed,’ I replied, struggling with Nathan’s poppers. ‘All right, baby, just a second . . .’

  ‘No, no, NOT dry and dressed!’ she yelled doggedly.

  My ears were straining hopefully for the sound of Alex’s footsteps on the stairs, but no footsteps came. What was he doing down there? Couldn’t he hear that Bathroom War No. 278 was breaking out up here?

  Clearly not. I heard the low mumble of Radio 4 start up in the kitchen. Ahh! Maybe he was pouring me a glass of red and he was going to bring it up here. Medicinal, and all that. He was practically a mind-reader.