The Seven Year Itch

by Emlyn Rees

  Suddenly, all those spontaneous good times seem like aeons ago.

  Everywhere I look, people seem to be having fun. Everyone has someone to talk to, and they’re all laughing. There’s a hen party at the table next to mine and they sing along to Elvis, waving their feather boas in time.

  They’re all older than me and have dressed up the hen in a fairy outfit. She’s got flabby arms and an old tattoo and keeps phwaaah-ing like a pantomime dame. Various phallic objects litter the space between their empty snake-bite pint glasses. They look like the kind of hardened women that don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks of them. From what I’ve gathered from their conversation so far, they all smoke, they all watch Coronation Street and EastEnders with a devotion that’s almost religious, and they’re off to bingo later. But I admire them in a way. They seem to have being happy sussed. You wouldn’t find any of them tying themselves up in knots like I am.

  They all laugh uproariously as the song finishes.

  ‘Waiting for your hubby?’ one of them says. She’s the nearest to me and has a light blue feather boa and lips that are lined in a dark maroon liner with metallic pink filling. Her cheeks are flushed. She must have noticed me staring at them all.

  ‘No, my best friend,’ I say, embarrassed.

  ‘Girlie chat is it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  I can’t explain. I can’t stay and talk to a bunch of strangers. I grab my bag, ready to go.

  Drop Dead Bloody Gorgeous

  But just as I’m about to stand up, I notice a man at the bar on his own. He seems to be surveying the room, searching for someone and, when his eyes meet mine, he comes over to my table.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. He smiles. His teeth are perfect. His green eyes twinkle with question marks. ‘Are you Helen?’

  My throat goes tight and my palms start sweating.

  Oh my God. It’s him! It’s Tom. H’s internet date.

  Well, so much for H’s no photo theory. My instinct was right all along. He’s absolutely drop-dead bloody gorgeous. He’s tall with shaggy dark lustrous hair and he’s tanned. He’s wearing a short-sleeved linen shirt with nice shades tucked in his top pocket. There’s a kind of magnetism to him, which renders me incapable of speaking.

  ‘Um, well . . . I’m, er . . .’

  ‘Mind if I sit down?’ he says, pointing to a stool opposite mine.

  I’m blushing. I know I am. I can’t help it.

  ‘Are you . . . ?’ I say.

  ‘Tom,’ he says. ‘Tom Parry. My friends call me Tommo.’

  He smiles again and holds out his hand to shake mine. His grip is firm and warm. His Irish accent speaks of heather-strewn mountains and lazy lock-ins in country pubs.

  ‘I’m not H . . . Helen. I’m not the right person,’ I blurt. ‘I mean, I sort of am. I’m her friend. I was supposed to be meeting her earlier, and then I was going after you arrived, but she’s not here and . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ Tom says, looking a little put out.

  ‘I’m Amy,’ I say.

  ‘Well, Amy,’ he says, smiling again. ‘I’m delighted to meet you. Do you fancy staying for another one, whilst we wait for H to get here?’ He nods at my empty gin and tonic.

  This is all wrong. I should say no and make an excuse – but H will probably turn up any minute, and Tom is so relaxed. He’s behaving as if this is all totally normal.

  ‘Come on. Say yes. Don’t leave me.’ His eyes flick towards the hen party who are ogling him unashamedly. I think he’s sussed that if he stays on his own, they’ll eat him for breakfast.

  ‘OK,’ I say, sitting down. ‘Just one, then. Thanks.’

  He goes to the bar with my glass.

  ‘You don’t waste much time, do you?’ blue-boa lady says, laughing with the others.

  ‘God, this is embarrassing,’ I say, covering my face.

  ‘Phwoar, got yourself a looker there, love, eh?’ the hen says. ‘If you don’t want him, I’ll have him.’

  ‘And I’ll have him twice!’ one of her friends screeches. They all crack up laughing.

  I look at Tom at the bar. As if sensing me, he turns and smiles.

  My stomach flips over.

  Where is H? It should be her getting the smiles from the bar. I’ve met the guy for twenty seconds, but he’s fantastic. Perfect for her. Tom’s a ninety per center.

  At least.

  I check my mobile. There’s a voicemail. Shit. How didn’t I hear my phone? I dial to get the message. It’s H.

  ‘Babe, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, can’t make it. I’m completely stuck at this meeting. Can we meet up another time? Sorry. I know you’re going to kill me. Anyway, you’re not picking up, so I imagine you’re on your way home. If not and if you do bump into that Tom guy, tell him I’m sorry. I’ll e-mail him later and rearrange.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. She’s not coming,’ I tell Tom as he comes back to the table with my drink. ‘H. Helen, I mean. She says she’s really sorry, but she’s got held up at work . . .’

  ‘You’re kidding? Just my bloody luck,’ he says. ‘You see, this is my first time. I’ve never done this internet dating thing before . . .’

  ‘Me neither,’ I say, before realising my blunder. ‘Not that I’m –’

  ‘It’s not a great start to be stood up, is it?’ Tom says, but he’s smiling.

  I notice the hen party nudging each other and looking at me and Tom. The blue-boa lady gives me a meaningful look.

  ‘Evening ladies,’ Tom says, raising his pint to the hen party. They collapse into flattered giggles.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says to me, leaning forward. Now that he’s up close, I notice how nice he smells – kind of musky, but clean. Not like Jack, who doesn’t smell of anything any more, not to me, on account of the fact we both use the same deodorant and Ben’s shampoo and bubble bath. But Tom . . . he smells different. Other. New. And – I can’t deny it – sexy as hell.

  ‘So . . . she’s not very reliable, this mate of yours, is she? Sounds like she’s let us both down.’

  I feel I should stick up for H. ‘She’s great, honestly, you’d really like her.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  And H would like him. He’s good-looking enough to model, but rough enough to satisfy her rugged outdoors-man fantasy.

  ‘She’s just got this important TV job and she’s the boss,’ I insist.

  ‘Oh.’ He doesn’t sound very impressed. ‘What about you, then? What do you do? Are you in TV, too?’ He says ‘TV’ as if he thinks it’s a ridiculous job.

  ‘I used to work in fashion, but I’ve got a little boy now, so I’m just a mum . . .’

  ‘Congratulations,’ he says. His eyes twinkle at me as he sips his pint. ‘Lucky fella. Your husband, I mean.’

  I take a sip of my drink.

  ‘So you’re a literary editor, right?’ I ask.

  Tom raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh? So you read my profile, too?’

  ‘Yes, I kind of helped H choose.’

  As soon as I say it, I realise how bad it sounds. Like I’m the one who chose him. I hold my breath. I feel totally rumbled.

  There’s a beat.

  ‘So . . . I bet it’s hard work, parenting full-time?’ he says, letting my comment pass. When I glance up at him, his eyes are dancing with smiles. George Clooney eat your heart out.

  ‘Yes, but it’s not like it’s real work, is it?’

  ‘Hey, don’t do yourself down,’ he says, suddenly serious. ‘In my opinion it’s the most important job in the world, and the least appreciated. People don’t realise the sacrifice it involves. My mum brought us all up herself and I couldn’t have more respect for her.’

  And that’s it. Maybe it’s just that my stalemate with Jack has starved me of conversation for a week and that I’m desperate to talk to someone . . . anyone. Or maybe it’s more that Tom is so easy to talk to. Suddenly, we’re chatting as if we’ve known each other for years. We seem to cut straight to the chase. All the nervous pr
eambling small talk simply vanishes. Instead, we dive headfirst into meaty, interesting topics.

  Before long I’ve learnt all sorts of fascinating things about him: that his soul home is the west coast of Ireland, that his last girlfriend was a musician who went to America to record an album and promptly ran off with her producer, that his grandfather owned a printing press and that’s how his passion for books came about.

  Then we talk about how he loves challenges, and how he helped organise a rally last year and took part in a vintage Bentley and drove all the way through Europe. His life seems dynamic and interesting and filled with quirky adventures.

  ‘So what do you do to let off steam?’ he asks me.

  I laugh. ‘You know, these days, not much. Apart from phoning up radio stations for kicks.’

  ‘Really? Which one?’

  ‘You won’t have heard of it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s just quite a new one. Radio CapitalChat.’

  ‘No way!’ he says, putting his pint down on the table. ‘I love CapitalChat. I have it on all the time.’

  ‘Really? My husband, Jack, thinks that the only people who listen to it are bored housewives and nutters. I’m delighted that you’ve disproved his theory.’

  And I am.

  ‘Who do you phone up then?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Jessie Kay’s show. I like her.’

  ‘Me too. I love all her Conundrums and My Rant stuff. Hang on,’ Tom says, pointing at me. His face lights up with a question. ‘You’re not . . . you’re not Amy from West London?’

  I cover my cheeks and nod as a net of butterflies is released in my stomach.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ he says.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ I say. ‘You’ve heard me?’

  ‘Heard you? I think you’re fabulous! I always listen to that show, just to see if you might come on. That thing you said about blokes hoarding junk . . . about the inner Del Boy? I was quoting you all day.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Of course I was. It was hilarious – and so true.’

  I am stupidly, shamelessly, breathtakingly flattered.

  All of a sudden, for the first time in ages, I feel like I have an identity. That I really am Amy from West London. A person with opinions and things to say that people want to listen to.

  Soon it gets too loud in the pub to continue our conversation. When Tom suggests we leave, I get up to go with him, but I get to the door and Tom’s not behind me. I look back and he’s at the bar talking to the barman. I see him showing Tom a bottle of champagne and Tom nodding, before handing over two twenty-pound notes. The barman takes the champagne to the hen party.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I ask, as he joins me on the pavement. ‘That was so sweet.’

  ‘Sometimes, you have to restore people’s faith in mankind.’

  It’s worked. My faith is restored, let alone the hens’.

  ‘So, what are we doing now?’ he asks, rubbing his hands together. Standing next to him, I realise how tall he is. He towers above me and I notice for the first time how fit he looks. I can see the muscles on his arms.

  I know I should go home. Every brain cell I have is screaming at me to end this thing right now. It feels too good to be anything other than utterly sinful.

  ‘I’ve got to go . . .’ I mumble, half-heartedly.

  ‘Come on. You don’t mind keeping me company, do you? To be stood up once is bad enough, twice is looking careless – and anyway, I can’t believe my luck that I’ve met Amy from West London.’

  ‘Stop it –’

  ‘Look, I booked a restaurant up the road, just in case, you know, and now I’m starving. I hate dining on my own. What do you say?’ His accent is irresistible.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Come on. What harm can it do?’

  ‘But I hardly know you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ I point out. ‘I don’t usually do that kind of thing.’

  ‘What? Eat?’

  I laugh, embarrassed.

  ‘It’s OK. I generally behave quite well in restaurants. You can trust me.’

  I think about Jack going to Nobu with Matt, Honey and Carmen. He didn’t think it was a problem, did he? ‘It’s not a sin to eat.’ That’s what he said. And why the hell shouldn’t I have some fun?

  My First Internet Date

  It turns out that the restaurant Tom has booked is in a private members’ club in a ramshackle town house in Dean Street. It’s one of those places that you’d never guess was there unless you were ‘in the know’. There’s a discreet panel on the door and I feel a thrill of excitement as we’re buzzed in.

  We’re shown up some rickety dark wooden stairs to a beautiful dining room. It’s all crisp white tablecloths, candles and pretty chandeliers. I haven’t been somewhere this tasteful for years.

  ‘They know me here,’ Tom says, as we’re shown to the best table in the corner. The waitress visibly swoons at him.

  ‘How are you, Anna?’ he asks.

  She smiles. ‘Fine thanks, Tommo.’

  ‘Is the English asparagus risotto on tonight?’

  She nods.

  ‘Then my lovely companion here must try it,’ Tom insists and Anna looks me up and down with an expression of curious admiration.

  I feel myself standing taller. I like being described as Tom’s lovely companion. I like his calm confidence and the way he makes everything seem exclusive and exciting.

  ‘So tell me about Jack,’ he says, when we’re settled at our table and he’s ordered an expensive bottle of white wine. ‘He must be a hell of a guy.’

  I shake my head. Sitting in this restaurant with Tom, I feel like I’m on a date, and I can’t quite handle it.

  Tom must sense my confusion. ‘You don’t want to talk about him?’

  ‘No. Yes. I –’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Tom gives me a reassuring look. ‘You can tell me anything. I mean, we’ll probably never meet again, so what have you got to lose? And anyway, I’m a good listener.’

  He is. I don’t feel self-conscious at all, but even so, I don’t tell him about my ongoing row with Jack and the incident with the chicken fricassee. Instead, I tell him that Jack is a great guy, but he’s a great guy who works most of the time, and I find myself admitting that I’m lonely and that I find parenting hard, and that Jack and I have got so used to each other and so domesticated that we hardly ever find time to remember why what we have is so special.

  In other words, I tell him way too much.

  ‘Oh God, I’m making out that we’re not happy,’ I say. ‘I am. I mean we have our rows, but we are happy, I think.’

  ‘Well at least it doesn’t interfere with your internet dating.’

  I look up and see that he’s teasing me.

  ‘This must look really bad to you, Tom.’

  He shrugs. ‘No. It’s just fate.’

  ‘Fate?’

  ‘Is it really so bad to step outside your life once in a while and do something way out of the ordinary? Just to let your hair down and live a little?’

  ‘You don’t think I should feel guilty about this?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  Maybe Tom’s right and this is all fate. Maybe he’s been sent to me. Maybe I’ve bumped into this perfect stranger to help me think things through.

  ‘It’s not all so bad,’ Tom says. ‘To be honest, I’m envious of you. I’d love to have kids. I’d hang out with them all the time. I’ve got loads of nieces and nephews and I’m always up in the mornings with them, building camps and taking them for adventures.’

  The way he talks about it makes parenting sound fantastic. Exciting. Like I once imagined it would be.

  ‘But I think the trick is to have loads of kids,’ Tom says, after describing what seems like a perfect idyll on his family’s farm in Galway. ‘A big gang.’

  ‘I’d love to have more,’ I confe
ss.

  Tom leans across towards me. His smile is charm itself. ‘And you should. People as pretty as you should breed as much as possible.’

  The Cinderella Moment

  It’s nearly twelve by the time we leave Tom’s club. We’ve been talking all evening like long-lost friends and I’ve only just realised the time. We’ve discussed everything from politics to art, and books of course. I’ve given Tom my e-mail address, for him to send me some recommendations. I feel stimulated and wide awake, like my brain has suddenly remembered what it’s there for – to soak up all this cultural knowledge and wisdom.

  ‘I’m going on the Bakerloo line,’ I tell him, as I shrug into my jacket on the pavement. I’ve drunk too much and I’m worried that I’m going to miss the last tube.

  ‘I’m going on down to Charing Cross to catch the train. You could walk with me and catch the tube there?’

  The night air is balmy, red buses and black cabs idle in the distance on Charing Cross Road and we’re standing in a pool of lamplight. Suddenly, I’ve decided that if I miss the tube, I’ll get the night bus. Our eyes connect for too long.

  ‘OK,’ I say, but my heart is pounding. Why don’t I just go home?

  We head towards Trafalgar Square. We walk side by side down the steps in front of the National Gallery and on between the fountains. There’s a full moon and the face of Big Ben shines below it in the distance. The clock is striking midnight, echoing towards us. There’s something magical about it. Something that reminds me of Peter Pan.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Tom asks. It’s only then that I notice him staring at my face.

  ‘That it’s so easy to fall out of love with London, or anywhere for that matter, when you only pound the streets of one square of the A–Z. You forget that there is all this other stuff that makes you feel so alive. Tonight has made me remember what I love so much about living here.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘That it’s full of possibilities.’

  I can’t hold his gaze. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Did that sound provocative to him? Did my comment about possibilities sound like I meant me and him?