Love Nest

by Julia Llewellyn

  Max hadn’t met anyone he wanted to settle down with and he wasn’t sure that would change. He enjoyed life the way it was.

  At least he usually enjoyed it. Max looked at his screen. He’d just filed 600 words on Jordan’s new boyfriend. He hadn’t gone into journalism for this. He’d been hoping to be breaking scoops à la Watergate. But that kind of journalism had died out along with bus conductors and payphones; his brother Jeremy had enjoyed the tail end of it and then got out and moved into the lucrative world of PR. Max had followed in his footsteps, but these days the industry was in such dire straits he felt like a hansom cab driver after the invention of the automobile, knowing his days were distinctly numbered.

  His mobile started ringing. Shit. Heather. Quickly he turned it off and shoved it in his pocket. The office was humming away as ever, but a few people had sloped off from their desks for lunch. Time for a break; Max decided he’d go for a walk, perhaps up to Kensington Gardens, to enjoy the glorious spring weather.

  He walked up Kensington High Street and into the gardens. Round the pond twice, dodging necking tourists and gleeful toddlers. He was about to sit on a bench and feel the sun on his skin when he did a double-take. Occupying the bench already was Karen Drake.

  For a second he watched her. Like every time he saw her, Max was struck by her beauty. Absolutely nothing like Heather, who was blonde and tall and voluptuous; Karen was almost on the scrawny side. And certainly a lot more tired-looking than when she’d been Jeremy’s girlfriend. But there was something so intriguing about her, Max had always thought so, and seeing her sitting there, staring ahead, unaware of his scrutiny, indeed unaware of anyone, he felt as if he was nineteen again: watching from a distance, in total awe.

  He wondered if he should run for it. He’d wondered about calling her after their lunch, but she hadn’t seemed to particularly enjoy it and then the Heather stuff and the demands of the new job had taken over.

  He was about to back away, when she looked up. Straight at him.

  ‘Hello!’ She sounded friendly enough.

  ‘Hello. How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine.’ She pushed her sunglasses up on to her head. ‘Just taking a break from the article I’m editing about how the make-up trend for hair this summer will be structure. Whatever that means. How about you?’

  ‘A ten-minute breather. You know what I said about how life would be easier at the Post?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Well, they conned me. Like someone asking you for their Tube fare home. And I fell for it.’

  Karen laughed sympathetically. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but you did seem a little bit naive about it all.’

  There was a tiny pause and then he said, ‘Listen, sorry I haven’t been in touch since our lunch. I was hoping to do it again sooner, but like I say I’ve been on the rack.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she shrugged.

  ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘If you still have time before you need to get back.’

  ‘Not sure where to go for coffee round here,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s have an ice cream, then,’ Max exclaimed, nodding at a nearby van. ‘A 99?’

  He thought she’d say no. But she stood up. ‘Did you know Mrs Thatcher invented 99s? Before she became a politician?’ she asked, starting to walk towards the van.

  He did know, but he didn’t want to be rude, so he said, ‘No! Really? When? When she was a chemist?’

  ‘Mmm, hmm. She was on a team that worked out how to preserve Mister Softee. Another thing to be grateful to her for. Or not.’ She glanced at him sideways. ‘I’m forgetting, Mrs Thatcher probably seems to you like Churchill did to me. Ancient history.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said indignantly. ‘My mum used to frighten me with her when I was a kid. Said she’d come and get me instead of the bogeyman.’

  Karen laughed. ‘Yes, I remember your mum, she was very…’

  ‘Champagne socialist.’

  ‘I didn’t say that!’ They both laughed. They ordered two ice creams from the van.

  ‘I’ll get these,’ Max said, as she fumbled in her bag for her purse.

  ‘No, I insist. My turn.’

  ‘OK, the next lunch is on me though. Somewhere nice.’ He had no idea where that flirtatious remark had come from. He hadn’t planned on another lunch with Karen. Apart from anything, nobody lunched any more; the concept was a throwback to the boom years, like first-generation iPods and waiting lists for handbags. Happily, Karen seemed not to have registered it.

  They sat down on a nearby bench.

  ‘Well, this is decadent,’ she said.

  ‘Not by your standards. In the old days didn’t you always polish off a bottle of wine at lunchtime?’

  ‘Not just me! Everyone. Sometimes two. And then we’d go back and work our butts off all afternoon unearthing scoops, bringing governments to their knees.’

  ‘And then you’d go to the pub and drink some more.’

  ‘It’s all true. Your generation are complete wusses in comparison to us: living on a diet of Red Bull and vitamin water. Not that I’m any better. I remember when I used to long to stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. Now my first thought on receiving any party invitation is: “Oh God, I wonder how early we can leave.” ’ She stopped short. ‘Sorry. I don’t want to frighten you with stories of family life. Your poor girlfriend won’t thank me.’

  At the mention of Heather, he flinched slightly. ‘Jeremy’s just the same,’ he said cheerily, not wanting to go there. ‘Says his idea of perfect happiness is going to bed at nine. So what news on your move?’

  Karen looked wary. ‘Nothing as yet.’

  ‘You haven’t resigned?’

  She shook her head. ‘The house sale might fall through. I don’t want to be jobless until I know for sure.’

  ‘Sounds like you don’t want to be jobless at all.’

  Karen bit into her Flake. He noticed the diamond ring flashing on her left hand. What had she said her husband was? Venture capitalist? Loaded.

  ‘It worries me a bit that I can get so much satisfaction out of putting together a hundred pages a week on diets and star beauty secrets and the five best flip-flops on the market. But I do. Even with all Christine’s histrionics. I love all the daily little challenges, and the people around me and being in control and…’

  But Max was finishing her sentence.

  ‘… And maybe you haven’t felt in control so much recently.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Your husband was ill. My mum died of ovarian cancer. Seven years ago. I know what it’s like. You try everything. Spend hours on the internet researching cures, working out who’s the best doctor. But in the end, it’s out of your hands. We were unlucky. Your husband was lucky. Neither of us could have had a say in the outcome.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘No reason why you should.’ Max shrugged, as the familiar wave of grief smacked him on the head. ‘It just means I know a bit of what you must have gone through. Though for you it must have been one hundred times worse. With young children. I can’t…’ He shook his head.

  ‘It was awful,’ she said quietly.

  They smiled sideways at each other. She had a lovely smile, perfect, small white even teeth. He imagined them biting down on…

  Max! She was married and almost old enough to be his mother.

  ‘So,’ she said briskly, as if she’d sensed his thoughts and wanted to snuff them out. ‘Have you seen any good films lately?’

  Gemma was sitting in the ‘chill-out’ area in the mezzanine, looking out over the sun-streaked back streets of Clerkenwell, phone tucked under her chin as she talked to Bridget. But she couldn’t concentrate on the conversation; all she could think about was the latest blow. They’d had a great weekend in Belfast for Alex’s dad’s sixty-fifth, but on the Monday when they returned she’d received crushing news. Bridget had a cyst on one of her ovaries.
Which meant the egg extraction had to be postponed for the time being.

  ‘We need the eggs to be in the best possible condition,’ explained the clinic nurse, Sian. ‘A cyst is usually only a temporary problem. We’ve given Bridget some tablets and they should zap it.’

  ‘Everything will work out,’ Bridget was assuring her now, down the phone. ‘I can just feel it.’

  ‘How can you feel it?’ Gemma couldn’t help the bitterness that crept in.

  ‘I just… Don’t be negative, Gems. That’s not going to get us anywhere.’

  ‘I’m not being negative. I’ve had a look online and there are tons of things we – I mean you – can do. Maitake mushrooms can help.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll track some down. And pokeroot oil. And you should avoid body lotion because apparently that exacerbates cysts!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Bridget sounded as if she were fifteen and Mum was nagging her to do her homework.

  ‘So how’s it going with Massy?’ Gemma said, realizing she’d better back off.

  ‘Really well. He says I’m his dream lover and must have been put on this earth to make his happiness complete.’

  ‘He sounds almost too good to be true.’

  ‘He is. So did you fill in all the forms last time you went in?’

  ‘Yes. Both of us.’ A green form each, Gemma consenting to having an embryo placed inside her, Alex consenting to have his sperm used to make said embryo. Please let the day happen.

  ‘Me too. And I had to write the baby a goodwill message. And write a portrait of myself. Which is kind of silly because of course the baby’s going to know me. But it’s nice to think if I was run over by a bus or something, my baby would have something personal to remember me by.’

  ‘ “My baby?” ’ Gemma felt herself stiffening.

  ‘My baby. Your baby. Whoever’s. We’ve been through all that. Let’s just hope you don’t let me down, eh? That you’re able to carry it.’

  Gemma felt giddy with unease. ‘What about you letting me down?’ she said, trying to sound breezy.

  ‘Absolutely. Dervla went on a lot about that, how I mustn’t feel guilty if my eggs weren’t good enough, blah blah. As if I would. I mean it’s not up to me, is it? How’s Alex, anyway?’

  ‘Busy. His trial’s started so he’s getting about three hours’ sleep a night.’ Gemma stared out of the window, breathing deeply, determined not to let Bridget know how unnerved she was. Far below she noticed a young woman standing on the pavement staring up at the flats. She had bleached blonde hair, an obviously fake tan and wore a short blue puffa jacket over white jeans. All very bling, not grungy Clerkenwell at all. There was a troubled look on her pretty, round face as she scanned the building.

  ‘Alex works too hard, you know. And what about the flat sale?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve had a victory on that. Sort of. He’s only going to take twenty-five grand off now.’

  ‘Alex hangs tough as usual.’

  Gemma had had enough. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, there’s someone on the other line. I’ll call you later, OK? ‘Bye.’

  She hung up feeling quite ill. What on earth was she doing? Was she doomed to a lifetime of Bridget referring to Chudney as hers? Interfering. Judging the decisions she and Alex made as parents. It was going to be a nightmare. Why hadn’t she gone for the anonymous donor?

  It was on days like these she wished she still worked, had something to take her mind off her worries. She’d go for a swim, she decided. She grabbed her swimming bag, put on her raincoat and headed for the lift. Its doors opened and the blonde she’d seen on the street stepped out. She looked around, clearly unsure what to do or where to go. Normally Gemma followed the first rule of London life: never speak to anyone unless you have been introduced to them at a dinner party, and never make eye contact with anyone except blood relations. But now she heard herself saying, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m looking for Flat 15.’

  ‘Flat 15? That’s where I live.’

  ‘Oh, right!’ The woman smiled nervously. She had a northern accent. Gemma was unnerved. Was she selling something? Or a Christian?

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I think my boyfriend and I are buying your flat. So I was wondering if I could take a look at it.’

  ‘Your boyfriend? Nick Crex?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gemma was surprised. Obviously, she was pretty – very pretty – but Gemma had imagined someone a bit hipper. More edgy. Alexa Chung rather than Jordan’s little, shyer sister.

  ‘He really is, do you want me to prove it?’ She wasn’t annoyed, more pleading. As if she were used to the raised eyebrows. She opened her bag. ‘Look, here’s our gas bill. We’ve got all the utilities in both our names.’

  Gemma glanced at it: an address in NW3 and Nicholas Crex and Kylie Baxter. ‘So how come you haven’t seen the flat before?’

  ‘I only just found out he’s buying it. And I was curious.’

  ‘But your partner came and had a look on Friday,’ Gemma said. ‘Again.’

  ‘Again? How many times has he been here?’

  She looked stricken. Gemma felt suddenly uneasy. ‘Um, a couple of times, I think. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Right.’ She paused. ‘He said he’s buying it as an investment. To rent out.’

  ‘Does he? Well, he’s certainly been putting us through the mill over it, so please tell him to make up his mind.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Gemma said, touched by how pale she looked. ‘Look, since you’re here, come in.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ As she headed back down the corridor, Kylie following, it occurred to her that perhaps this wasn’t an altogether brilliant idea. That the vendor was meant to have absolutely no contact whatsoever with the seller, that Kylie might not like the flat and talk Nick Crex out of it. But sod it. You had to believe in karma. By being kind to Kylie, the rest of the sale would go swimmingly and the cyst would be cured too.

  ‘Oh,’ said Kylie, looking round. ‘It’s just one big… space, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Gemma closed the door behind her. Already she was regretting her decision. She wondered if she could open a window, but that involved grappling with a scary-looking metal pole, which a buyer might find offputting. ‘Tea, coffee?’

  ‘I’d love a cup of tea. But only if you’re having one.’

  Gemma switched on the kettle. Kylie was still looking around, slightly bemused. ‘Are there any curtains for those windows?’

  ‘No.’ Gemma decided not to tell the truth, that they looked into the idea years ago and dismissed it as too expensive. ‘After all, we’re not directly overlooked; there are flats over there but they’re too far away to see anything. I mean maybe with a powerful telescope…’

  ‘Right,’ Kylie said dubiously. Gemma poured boiling water over an Earl Grey tea bag.

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Just milk, please.’

  She added some. ‘I’m having herbal.’ For some reason she added, ‘I’m trying to have a baby, so my husband and I are off tea and coffee. Anything caffeinated.’

  ‘Really? Oh! I’ll have to remember that when we start trying. Because I want to. Soon. Actually,’ she lowered her voice as if the world was listening, ‘I’m not that careful already. Leaving it to fate, if you know what I mean.’

  Are you indeed? Gemma’s bitterness was on full alert now. Let’s hope it’ll be easy for you. ‘Mmm,’ she said.

  ‘Do you mind if I have a look upstairs?’ Kylie asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Gemma snapped. She followed her up the spiral staircase. Kylie stood on the mezzanine floor, biting her lip.

  ‘Is this what they’d call a loft?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Gemma assured her. ‘Lofts are just one big space and we’ve got lots of rooms. Um, the bedrooms are through there.’ She congratulated herself on being the kind of person who alway
s made the bed in the morning, unlike Bridget, who said: ‘You’re only going to mess it up again later, so why bother?’ Kylie went into the master bedroom, looked around and came out chewing her lip.

  ‘Did you see the walk-in wardrobe?’ Gemma asked. ‘Isn’t it great? I don’t know how I survived without it.’

  ‘Don’t you feel a bit funny sleeping up on that platform?’

  ‘Oh no, you get used to it really quickly,’ Gemma lied. ‘It’s fun.’

  ‘I can see why you want to move if you want a baby.’

  Silence. Gemma was furious with herself. Why on earth had she thought it was a good idea to let this woman in? She was going to run home to her rock-star boyfriend, point out the obvious flaws that – as a typical man – he’d not noticed, and the whole deal would be off.

  ‘It’s a wonderful part of London,’ she said hastily. ‘So many bars and restaurants and cool little boutiques.’

  ‘Uh, huh. I don’t know London that well, really. I miss home, to be honest. I’d like to move back, I don’t see why we couldn’t have a house in Burnley, but the rest of the band’s here and…’ To Gemma’s consternation, a fat tear rolled down Kylie’s plump, pink cheek and into her mug of tea. ‘Oh, sorry!’

  ‘It’s OK. Do you want a tissue?’

  Kylie nodded. The tears were really coming now. Gemma hurried into the bathroom and came back with a wad of Kleenex.

  ‘I’m being silly, I know, it’s just… it’s all so hard at the moment. I came to London with Nicky because I love him but I never see him and when I do he’s grumpy because the new album’s going so badly and I miss my mum and…’ She blew her nose heavily into the tissue. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just all getting to be a bit much.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Gemma said, gesturing towards the sofa. ‘Here. Come and sit down.’

  ‘I’m keeping you. You must have places to go.’

  ‘I’m in no rush.’

  They ended up having two more cups of tea. Kylie confided in Gemma how alien she found London. How the girls in the salon mimicked her northern accent. How she was terrified because she kept reading in the news about all these stabbings. How Burnley was rough too but at least she knew her neighbours, felt people were looking out for her, and her mum and sister were just up the road. How lonely she was sitting in her luxurious flat every evening waiting for Nick to get back from the studio.