Not Quite Perfect

by Annie Lyons

  ‘Listen to yourself, Rach, any excuse for a row, any chance for a fight and you’re there, aren’t you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Face it Rach, you do have the tendency to be a bit unreasonable. I was just trying to pick the right moment.’

  Rachel is struck dumb for the second time that afternoon and furious that Steve is stealing her moment of thunder. ‘Steve?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Piss off.’ Rachel cuts him off before he can respond and immediately phones Sue.

  ‘Hi, love, are you OK?’

  ‘No, not really. Steve is being a prick.’

  ‘Had that rational chat then?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Do you want some company?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘OK. I’ll be round in twenty minutes. I hope you’ve got a bottle chilling.’

  Rachel stalks downstairs to a peaceful living room with the children slumped coma-like now watching Tom and Jerry. Rachel watches with them for a while. She’d always hated Tom, and found herself as a child, rooting for the cheeky chancer, Jerry. On watching again, she realises that he’s actually a pretentious little tosser and Tom is the eternally tortured soul, whom no one understands.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ she mutters to herself as she heads to the kitchen. ‘I’m empathising with a cartoon cat now.’ She checks the fridge first for wine and then decides to be an über-mother by preparing something wholesome for the kid’s tea. On further inspection of the contents of the fridge, she decides that another dose of Omega 3 via the medium of fish fingers will do them no harm.

  As she scans the surprisingly tidy kitchen, her eye is caught by a picture Will did a month or so ago entitled ‘My Family’. It had made them laugh because he had drawn them all as Power Rangers. Rachel looks closely, smiling to herself, but this time notices the expressions on the faces. He has drawn himself, his siblings and Steve with enormous cartoon grins but she notices that her face is not smiling but slightly turned down. She tries to dismiss it with her usual humour, questioning whether he is a new Leonardo and is seeking to recreate the Mona Lisa, but something about it makes her feel sad and rather lonely. She is interrupted by a polite tap at the front door.

  ‘You took your time,’ she declares flinging it open.

  ‘I did?’ says Tom smiling.

  Rachel is momentarily flummoxed. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else’

  ‘Oh.’ Tom looks slightly disappointed and then grins again.

  ‘No, it’s OK. It’s nice to see you. Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine thanks, Mrs Summers. I’m just playing Postman Pat. I took this parcel in for you this morning.’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much.’

  ‘Where’s Postman Pat?’ Alfie inquires suddenly at Rachel’s legs, peering up at Tom.

  ‘I’m here and you must be Alf Thompson. Hullo Alf!’ says Tom putting on a Postman Pat Yorkshire accent.

  Rachel is impressed. ‘Good knowledge!’

  Tom winks at her. ‘My nephews and nieces have trained me well. I can do them all, Fireman Sam, Bob the Builder.’

  ‘Where’s Jess?’ says Alfie, oblivious to the mild flirting which is going on above his head.

  ‘She’s at home having a rest. We’ve had a busy morning delivering all these parcels.’

  ‘Where’s your van?’ continues Alfie.

  ‘Er, round the corner.’

  ‘Ha!’ laughs Rachel. ‘You’re rumbled mate!’

  Tom laughs. Alfie screws up his face with scepticism and runs back to the living room.

  ‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ Rachel asks, surprising herself.

  ‘Erm, OK, why not? Only if I’m not in the way though.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You can keep us entertained with your repertoire of children’s characters.’

  Rachel leads him down to the kitchen just as her mobile starts to ring. It’s Sue: ‘Listen, darl, I’m really sorry. I’m not going to make it. Joe’s just thrown up everywhere. Can we speak tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t worry. I hope he’s better soon.’

  ‘Take care, lovely, and talk to Steve. He’s one of the good guys, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ says Rachel feeling suddenly exhausted.

  Rachel turns to find Tom filling up two wine glasses from the bottle he’s found in the fridge.

  ‘Sorry, I took the liberty.’

  Rachel accepts the glass feeling suddenly shy. She is relieved when two sets of three-year-old feet come stampeding down the corridor. Alfie and Lily appear in a state of heightened excitement.

  ‘That’s him,’ says Alfie pointing at Tom.

  Lily looks Tom up and down, like an old lady inspecting a joint of meat. ‘Why are boys so stupid? That’s not Postman Pat. It’s Tom from next door.’

  It’s getting dark as Emma leaves the office, joining the flow of commuters in a hurry to get home because it’s Monday and no one goes out on a Monday. The sky has that London light-polluted glow which means it never goes completely dark, even at night. It’s chilly and a little rain has dampened the streets. Emma is feeling fed up and ready for a bath, a large glass of wine and the welcoming arms of her fiancé. She feels her phone vibrate in her bag. Fumbling through a mess of keys, lipstick and receipts, she locates it just in time, seeing Martin’s caller ID on the screen.

  ‘Hi, handsome. I’ve just left and I’m looking forward to my spag bol and maybe an encore of last night’s performance?’ says Emma with a smile.

  ‘Hey, Em,’ says Martin sounding guilty. ‘Thing is I forgot I’d said I’d play five-a-side football with Charlie. Any chance we could postpone it til tomorrow night?’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Look, Em, I’m really sorry and I’ll come home if you want me to. I know you’ve had a crap day,’ says Martin in a tone that is begging to be let off the hook.

  Emma sighs, knowing that she’ll feel mean if she forces the issue. ‘No, it’s OK. You go. I’ll probably just head home and have a bath and an early night. I’m a bit knackered.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Sure you’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, you loser, now bog off to your little football game,’ laughs Emma.

  ‘OK, well spag bol tomorrow night and then how about that encore?’ says Martin. ‘I’ll do anything you want.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Apart from the washing-up. I’ll see you later, OK? Love you, Em.’

  ‘‘Course you do. I’m bloody lovely!’ she declares. She throws the phone into her bag and starts to trudge towards the Tube feeling like a lost soul.

  ‘Emma! Emma!’ The voice is an unwelcome interruption to her thoughts of home and at first she thinks it’s Joel. She spins round, her face set in a scowl. ‘Woah, woah, woah!’ says the voice’s owner. ‘I come in peace!’

  Richard Bennett stands before her, an apologetic smile on his face, his hands held up in surrender. Emma is unsure what to do or say, so he jumps in. ‘Look, we didn’t have the best of starts.’

  ‘Slight understatement,’ says Emma arms folded. She’s let one man off the hook this evening, Richard Bennett isn’t going to have such an easy time. He looks floored for a moment and Emma would almost feel sorry for him if she weren’t so fed up. ‘Well, if that’s all you came to say, I would really like to go home now please.’

  He blocks her path. ‘Look,’ he begins again, ‘come and have a drink with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  Richard considers the question. ‘You want to know why?’

  Emma detects that he doesn’t get turned down that often. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  Richard’s brown eyes flash with amusement. ‘I’ll give you three reasons actually.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘One, I am really very sorry for what happened today. Two, I thought your pitch was wonderful. And three, your boyfriend stood you up so you may as well.’

  Emma is gobsmacked. ‘You were spyi
ng on me!’

  ‘No, I just came along at the right moment. So what do you say? One drink. I get to absolve my conscience and you get to spend an hour in the company of a glittering literary talent,’ he says grinning.

  She considers her options. One drink can’t hurt and she is intrigued by this man. Even if he has an ego the size of Big Ben, he does write a bloody brilliant book and that’s always of interest to Emma. Plus it’s not as if she’s got any better offers and she could murder a glass of something crisp, dry and white. ‘Oh all right then.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ says Richard seeming genuinely pleased.

  The nearest drinking establishment is one of those central London pubs that would have been lovely if they hadn’t let a eighties wine bar designer get his hands on it. The once dingy brown ceilings and walls, which always remind Emma of pubs she used to go to with her dad, have been replaced with a light airy space and pale wooden floor the size of a football pitch. The bar and surrounding tables and stools seem a little higher off the ground giving the impression that they have wandered into a giant’s kingdom.

  ‘What can I get you?’ drawls the ponytailed man behind the bar. Garen, as his name badge declares him to be, is surly but smart in his black shirt and silver tie with a Premiership footballer-type gigantic knot. The glass in which he serves Emma’s Sauvignon Blanc is the size of a goldfish bowl and could easily house the whole bottle. Richard’s Czech beer is the colour of gold with a price to match.

  ‘That’ll be nine eighty thanks guys,’ says Garen with as much cheer as he can muster. Richard waves away Emma’s purse,

  ‘You can get the next one,’ he says with a grin.

  They find a seat and Emma takes a large gulp of wine feeling herself relax a little.

  ‘So,’ says Richard at last, watching her carefully.

  ‘So,’ replies Emma.

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry how things turned out today.’

  ‘Are you? You seemed to be thoroughly enjoying yourself. As did your cohort.’

  ‘Oh Joanna’s, you know, an agent. She’s a bit fierce, but she knows what she’s doing.’

  ‘Oh and what’s that? Eating editors for breakfast?’

  ‘OK, maybe she’s a bit heavy-handed, but we authors do need a bit of protection from you merciless publishers you know.’

  ‘Publishers? Merciless? How very dare you. We act with integrity at all times.’ Emma is getting into her stride now and the wine is making her feisty and flirty.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever,’ grins Richard making a sign with his fingers.

  ‘Well I act with integrity.’

  He fixes her with a piercing look. ‘Do you know, Emma Darcy? I believe you do.’

  It might be the wine or the dodgy lighting, but Richard is starting to remind her of some actor she used to fancy. She pats her cheeks, which are starting to feel warm and fixes him with a look. ‘Then why did you give me such a hard time?’

  ‘Well you weren’t very nice about me on the train.’

  ‘I didn’t know who you were then.’

  ‘And that makes it OK, does it? You listened to the tittle-tattle of others before you made up your own mind. That doesn’t show too much integrity, does it? Shame on you, Emma Darcy,’ he says with a superior smile.

  ‘OK, I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s all lies,’ she says, daring him to contradict her.

  ‘Complete lies. I am actually very choosy both when it comes to girlfriends and editors.’

  ‘Well that’s very reassuring.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. But enough about me, tell me about you. What’s your favourite book?’

  ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude,’ says Emma without hesitation.

  Richard looks pleased. ‘Mine too.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Why would I do that? It’s not as if I’m trying to get you into bed. You’re attached and I respect that.’

  ‘Again, very reassuring,’ grins Emma.

  Richard gives a little bow. ‘Favourite film?’

  ‘Il Postino. Yours?’

  ‘Cinema Paradiso.’

  ‘That’s definitely in my top five.’ They continue to talk and Emma is amazed at how quickly the evening passes and that she has managed to put away three glasses of wine before she notices the time. Her stomach is growling from emptiness and she is feeling decidedly woozy. ‘I really should be getting home. I was only going to stay for one,’ she says, fumbling for her handbag.

  Richard sits back in his chair. ‘I’ve had a great evening, Emma Darcy, and the best is yet to come. Do you want to know the real reason I asked you here tonight?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Well, despite our faltering beginning, I think you understand my novel and you get what I’m trying to say. So, for that reason and the fact that you’ve got really nice legs, I want you to be my editor.’

  Emma is blown away and slightly flattered by the leg comment. ‘What about Joanna?’

  ‘Oh she’ll come round. She’ll still get her fifteen per cent and she needs to keep England’s most promising new novelist happy doesn’t she? So, what do you say?’

  Emma hesitates. Something deep inside her brain is trying to warn her off this one, but the wine and the fact that she has decided she quite likes this man makes her say, ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. I’m so happy,’ says Richard grinning. ‘Let’s have champagne to celebrate and if you insist on paying, I’ll accept. That was a joke by the way.’ He reaches for her hand, kissing it in a mock gentlemanly way, looking up at her as he does. Emma’s mouth goes dry. ‘The deal is sealed,’ he says.

  Rachel plods down the stairs glancing at the wonky display of what Steve calls their ‘Rogues’ Gallery’ of family photographs. She looks at the pre-children photo of Steve and her at a friend’s wedding and notices, not only that she was half a stone lighter and Steve’s hair was several tones less grey, but that they look happy. It’s not the happiness of stories or romantic endings but the happiness of possibilities, of what might be; that pre-marriage, pre-children happiness, when you still think you might write that novel or open your own business. It’s not that she feels bitter that she hasn’t achieved these things, she’s just resigned to the fact that she probably never will.

  Tom appears at the foot of the stairs wearing a pair of pink marigolds and clutching a tea towel. ‘All sorted?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Have you done the washing up? You really didn’t have to.’

  ‘It was my pleasure. Along with my sad devotion to hostas, I also take a tragic delight in cleaning baked bean encrusted pans.’

  ‘Goodness, I married the wrong man,’ declares Rachel and then wishes she hadn’t.

  ‘Well, I should let you put your feet up.’

  ‘You don’t have to go. Steve probably won’t get home until midnight and if you go I’ll only watch some reality floozie’s TV show. If you want to be a friend to me it’s your absolute duty to stay and save me from such purgatory.’ Rachel fears she is sounding a bit needy.

  ‘Very well, you can save me from another night watching eighties sitcom repeats and I will save you from ITV4,’ says Tom immediately.

  ‘Deal. I’ll get the wine, you put on some music. Fancy a game of DJs?’

  Tom looks bemused.

  ‘It’s a game Steve and I play. Each person selects a song of choice and the other person judges. Anything too pretentious or cheesy and you face a penalty, usually of a drinking nature.’

  ‘OK, but I warn you, despite my cuddly bear exterior, I am a bastard when it comes to competition and I rarely play fair.’

  ‘Hurrah, that’s fighting talk!’

  When Rachel returns with the drinks, Tom has selected ‘Major Tom’ by David Bowie and is smiling and singing along.

  ‘Excellent choice but careful with the karaoke, sunshine, or you’ll be knocking this back’.

  Tom laughs. ‘My dad used to sing this to me. He loved music but was completely tone deaf
. It’s where I inherited my talent.’

  Rachel laughs and is strangely touched by this shared confidence. ‘Do your parents live nearby?’

  ‘They’re both dead, I’m afraid, and in answer to your question, we grew up in Norfolk.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that’

  ‘Ah Norfolk isn’t so bad’

  ‘No, I meant –’

  ‘Rachel? That was a joke. It’s OK. It’s few years back now and they were older than your average parents. Dad got cancer and died within a few months and Mum couldn’t really survive without him. She had a heart attack about six months later. My older sister, Viv, and I always say she died of a broken heart.’

  ‘Oh Tom, that’s so sad.’

  ‘Yes it is, but they had each other for nearly fifty years and surely it’s better to have that kind of connection with another person?’

  ‘Better to have lived and loved? I’ve always thought so.’

  ‘Come on then, your turn. Bowie’s nearly finished. Surely you need to have a tune on or penalties will have to be faced?’

  ‘I see the man play to win, no? Right, try this one, mate.’ The opening tones of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Lately’ fill the room.

  ‘Nice move. Although of course, if you had chosen ‘I Just Called’ you would have been downing that bottle.’

  ‘True, but even geniuses have their off days.’

  ‘Indeed we do. So how are you then, Mrs Summers?’

  Tom is looking earnest now and Rachel isn’t sure if she wants to take the conversation down this route. She’s enjoying a bit of flirtatious banter and doesn’t want to spoil it. She sighs and looks slightly vague. ‘Oh, you know.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘No, it’s not that, it’s just that I really need to talk to Steve and haven’t had the chance.’

  ‘Hmm, sounds serious.’

  ‘Well, not as serious as Third World poverty, but important in our lives.’

  ‘Sorry, Rachel, I didn’t mean to pry.’ Tom looks slightly embarrassed and Rachel feels guilty.

  ‘It’s OK, really it is. Oh shit I’m making this into more than it is. Right, well Steve can’t be bothered to come home and talk to me properly, so you are officially my designated male for the evening.’ Rachel thinks Tom might be blushing, but she’s had too much wine to stop now. ‘Steve wants us to move to Edinburgh.’