Love @ First Site

by Jane Moore

  I adopt the best blank look I can muster. "Jess? Nope, sorry, my name's Olivia."

  His face drops. "Oh. You really look like her photo." He narrows his eyes and scrutinizes me, close enough so I get a faint whiff of halitosis.

  "I'm afraid I have one of those common faces and lots of people think they've met me before." I shake my head in mock despair, glance at my watch and sigh. "Oh well, it doesn't look like my naughty sister is going to turn up. She's so unreliable. Anyway, nice to have met you."

  I start to walk away, but he places a hand on my forearm and pulls me back.

  "Look, as fate has thrown us together in this way, why don't we make the most of it and get to know each other over a coffee?" He smiles and displays fantastic teeth . . . the only thing that's fantastic about him.

  "No thanks." I smile sweetly. "I already have a boyfriend."

  OK, so it's an inflatable one bought as a joke by Richard last Christmas, now lying punctured in the bottom of my wardrobe. But it has its uses, not least being able to rid myself of the bad breath munchkin without telling a full lie.

  I head off to Zara for some serious retail therapy.

  You did what?" Olivia tries to look admonishing, but her eyes are smiling. "Jess, that's terrible."

  It's the following day and we're sitting at her kitchen table, the rain lashing against the window.

  "I know, but I couldn't face spending even one hour with someone I found so physically unattractive. I have enough friends, I don't need any more." She's about to interject, but I put my hand up to stop her. "And no, he wasn't someone who would have grown on me. He had no redeeming features whatsoever, except his teeth."

  Olivia smiles, then stares out of the window watching the rain cascade down from a piece of loose guttering into a well-placed barrel below. She seems quieter than usual, distracted even.

  "You OK?" I inquire as I walk over and flick the kettle on. My question drags her out of her subconscious trance.

  "I'm fine," she says with a smile, though I'm still not convinced. Silently, I wonder if everything is on track with her and Michael.

  "Where did you say Michael was today?" I pour water into two mugs.

  "He's gone to a soccer match with a couple of friends from work." She jerks her head towards the window. "Though looking at the weather, the game could be a bit of a washout."

  Placing a mug of black coffee in front of her, I look at the Bob the Builder wall clock that's been there since Matthew had his fixation. "You'd better get ready."

  Olivia has asked me to babysit for a few hours because she has a half-day token for The Sanctuary, a health spa in central London, and it's about to run out. She has booked herself a facial, manicure, and pedicure, and I'm here to hold the fort until she or Michael gets back.

  "I could do with just going back to bed, to be honest," she sighs. "The bloody neighbors had their stereo blaring again until about two a.m. this morning, then Emily woke up at six."

  "Why didn't you bang on their door and complain? That's what I would have done."

  "We've tried that before and they told us to go forth and multiply. So Michael's latest tactic is to wait until it stops, give them just enough time to drift off to sleep, then ring them to say how much he enjoyed it." She smiles.

  "Genius." I grin, remembering that any official complaint about neighbors now has to be declared and can count against you when you want to sell your property.

  "Right, I'll be as quick as I can," says Olivia, taking a few glugs of coffee and getting to her feet.

  "Duh. Hardly the point!" I raise my eyes heavenward. "You're supposed to relax and enjoy it. Besides, I'm happy to hang out with Matthew and Emily for six weeks if I have to."

  When Olivia had given birth to Matthew, I was so excited that I made virtually daily visits for the first month of his life and quickly became besotted. I marveled at this mini-human and how he fearlessly responded to the world. He grew up almost as accustomed to my face as that of his mother, and when Emily was born it was pretty much the same story.

  "Thanks, Jess." Olivia's face looks serious. "You know, sometimes I wonder what I'd do without you."

  I glance up at her and she swiftly ducks her head, turns on her heel and heads for the hallway. I couldn't be one hundred percent certain, but there may have been tears in her eyes.

  As I watch her retreating up the hallway, I feel a mild flutter of panic. Perhaps my first instinct was right and she and Michael are going through a rough patch.

  If so, it's simply too much to contemplate. They are my marital utopia, the untouchable, unimpeachable couple smiling beatifically down from the pedestal I have placed them on. If they split up, everything I hold dear will be spun on its axle and messed up.

  Every time I even vaguely consider settling for someone just so, as I believe Tab has done, I always think about Olivia and Michael and how fantastic their marriage is. It spurs me on to keep up the eternal quest for something similar.

  Having tentatively broached the subject of her welfare earlier and been met with "I'm fine" in reply, I know now is not the time to probe further. But I make a mental note that, if she still seems down the next time I'm alone with her, I'll mention it again.

  We've never been a family that brushes things under the carpet or keeps things from each other, so I'm not about to start now.

  Ten

  It's 7:30 p.m., and I'm in the back of a cab, having raided Olivia's wardrobe and makeup bag. I'd like to tell you I'm off to see the latest Hollywood blockbuster with the man of my dreams, or heading for the airport for a relaxing holiday with my nearest and dearest chums.

  But the reality is far, far more mundane than that--grim, even. It's Kara's birthday and I'm on my way to her local wine bar for a celebratory dinner. Olivia was supposed to be coming with me, but by the time she returned from The Sanctuary--curiously looking more fragile and puffy-eyed than before she went--she didn't feel up to turfing out again.

  She apologized profusely, and I was about to tentatively broach the subject of her and Michael when I heard his key in the lock. So instead, I rang "International Rescue," in other words, Richard, to accompany me to tonight's debacle.

  "Ring her now on the mobile and say you've had a terrible car crash and can't come," he says. "Then you and I can just go to that great new club that's opened up in Ramillies Place."

  Richard and I are sitting in our prearranged rendezvous, a little bar just a few yards from Kara's birthday venue.

  "Believe me, I'd love to," I reply, taking a rather unladylike glug of my white wine. "But I can't. She'd never let me forget it, and she'd demand to see the medical records."

  Richard pulls a face. "Remind me again why you're friends with her?" It's a regular battle cry of his.

  "Excuse me? My friend? I vaguely recall she was at your anniversary party the other night."

  "That's because Lars likes her," he sniffs. "If it was up to me, she'd never darken our door."

  "Come on, we'd better go." I grab my Anya Hindmarch handbag with a print of Matthew and Emily on the side and stand up. Adopting the reluctant teenager stance, Richard ambles out, orangutan-style, behind me.

  Steph's wine bar is a low-lit temple to pickup joints. It has pink lightbulbs (great for disguising cellulite), cherry red faux suede banquettes in the shape of lips, and a smattering of disco balls across its claustrophobically low ceiling. Think Hugh Hefner's bedroom.

  Richard's nose wrinkles in disgust as we scan the room for Kara, our eyes narrowed in concentration. "You just know the food is going to be dire," he says. "The only blessing is we won't be able to see what we're eating."

  "Yoohoo, over here!"

  I follow a voice through the fog of smoke to my right, and there's Kara, waving enthusiastically in our direction and smiling for once.

  "Isn't Prozac marvelous?" murmurs Richard, waving back with all the borderline hysteria of a game show contestant.

  "Remember . . ." I scowl at him and make a zipping motion across my
mouth. "A closed mouth gathers no foot."

  "Fantastic to see you!" Kara envelops me in a showy hug, then leans back to air kiss my cheeks--thankfully, the ones on my face.

  When she pulls back, I notice a couple of people I don't recognize sitting alongside her, and realize the effusive welcome was for their benefit. She even brings herself to kiss Richard, but unlike little old people-pleaser me, he makes no secret of his surprise.

  "Bloody hell, and I thought you loathed me," he says, pulling a "get her" face at the two strangers.

  The sound of a misfiring machine gun fills the air. It's Kara laughing maniacally. "Oooh, he's such a card, isn't he?" She looks at the couple for a response, but there isn't one. "I told you he was a real laugh."

  Glum and Glummer simply stare back at her, their faces impassive. The woman, in particular, has a face that could chop wood.

  "Anyway, introductions!" Kara claps her hands together like a tour guide trying to assemble Japanese tourists. "OK, then. Jess, Richard, this is Harry and his wife, Clare. Harry, Clare, this is my oldest friend Jess and her boyfriend Richard."

  Boyfriend? I'm just about to open my mouth and ask her what the hell she's on about, when she shrieks "Drinks!" and grabs both Richard and me by the elbows and steers us towards the bar.

  Out of earshot, her jolliness evaporates like water on a hot plate. "You said you were bringing Olivia," she hisses, jerking her head towards Richard. "What's he doing here?"

  "Charming!" Richard puts one hand on his hip and strikes an indignant pose.

  "Olivia's feeling out of sorts and I didn't want to come on my own. I sent you a text to tell you," I lie.

  "Didn't get it," she snaps. "But never mind, we need to work quickly here. Harry is my boss and, to put it mildly, he doesn't like gays." She stares pointedly at Richard. "So I'd be grateful if, just for tonight, you'd pretend to be a couple."

  Richard and I stare at her for a couple of beats, both clearly expecting her to punch us in the chest any second and shriek "Only kidding!" Then I remember it's Kara and she's deadly serious. With the emphasis on deadly.

  "Kara, shame on you," I admonish. "This is 2004. You're not seriously expecting us to play Romeo and Juliet in front of your bigoted boss . . . are you?"

  Her mouth is set in a thin, resolute line and the look in her eyes tells me that, yes, that's exactly what she's expecting. I glance at Richard for moral support, but he looks surprisingly calm and places a reassuring hand on my arm.

  "Don't worry, Jess, I totally understand where Kara is coming from. This is her birthday and it's her boss, and she wants to impress him. Fair enough." He links his arm through mine. "Let's play ball."

  Mute with astonishment, I can only gape at the both of them as Kara takes delivery of a bottle of white wine, her sickly smile firmly bolted back on her face.

  "Great!" she enthuses. "Now let's go party!"

  As she walks back to the table and Richard moves to follow, I sharply tug his arm to hold him back. "You're not seriously going to go along with this homophobic bullshit, are you?"

  "Am I fuck," he says firmly. "Quite the opposite in fact. I'm about to make Carson Kressley look like Bob Dole."

  Placing a hand on his right hip, he minces away from me with such rolling exaggeration he looks like he's dislocated a leg. Kara is already sitting back down, her back to us as we approach the table.

  "Now then, who's the naughtieth boy here," lisps Richard, placing a finger on his chin in mock thought. "Oooh, you know what? I think it's Harry, I really do!" With that he backs his rear end into the small space between Harry and Clare, maneuvering himself into position and forcing them apart.

  I hover nervously at the end of the table, eventually daring to glance in Kara's direction. It's not a pretty sight. If looks could kill, then she's brandishing a Kalashnikov in each hand.

  "Sorry!" I whimper. "But as you know, he's a law unto himself." I look back to Richard, who now has an arm linked through both of them. He leans towards Harry and places his head in the crook of his neck.

  A faint smile playing on his lips, Kara's boss seems to be taking it all in good humor, but his wife is patently livid, her already ungenerous mouth shriveling to cat's arse proportions.

  "So I take it you two aren't an item then?" drawls Harry, patting the chair next to him as a gesture for me to sit down. I find myself warming to him.

  "No." I smile. "It was Kara's little joke on us. She knew full well we'd never be able to carry it off." There I am again, being a people-pleaser and making sure Kara's boss doesn't think badly of her when, in fact, she deserves to be exposed as the uptight dishrag she truly is.

  "I see." He looks unconvinced. "Wine?" He waves a bottle of Sancerre at me.

  I smile and nod, pushing my glass towards him. "So, you're a bigwig at Lincolns?" I ask, referring to the book publishers where Kara has been an editor for the past five years.

  He laughs. "I suppose so. I'm chairman."

  "Oh, you're the bigwig then." I should have known Kara would go straight to the top with her birthday invite. No mid-management or worker bees for her.

  I'm about to question him further on the company, when I see Kara's brother Jason hone into view, closely followed by her boyfriend Dan.

  "Where have you two been?" She scowls. "You said you were just having a quick drink down the road. Now half of my birthday night has gone already." She pouts as she says it and I notice a faint expression of irritation flicker across Dan's face.

  "Well, we're here now," he says in clipped tones. He plonks himself down between Kara and me, whilst Jason occupies the empty chair on the other side of his sister and next to Clare.

  Seven people. That's all Kara can muster for her birthday, and two of them she barely knows. Then there's her lover, brother, and Richard, who wasn't even supposed to be here. Which just leaves me, her one and only close girlfriend, and even I'm there under people-pleasing sufferance.

  She's always had some inexplicable hold over me, probably because in some thirteen-year-old way, I've always been anxious to be liked and she represents the perpetual challenge. A psychoanalyst would probably say we are locked in a victim/abuser relationship, and no prizes for guessing which one's me. The more Kara behaves awkwardly or just downright unpleasantly towards me, the more I dance around her, hoping that, one day, she'll make all the angst worthwhile by turning round and telling me how much she appreciates my friendship. But it's been twenty-three years now and, ho hum, I'm still waiting.

  Food and extra wine ordered, we all settle down into the inexorably polite small talk that throttles any dinner party gathering until alcohol loosens the inhibitions. Harry is asking me about Good Morning Britain, but I keep losing the thread of what I'm saying because I'm half earwigging Richard's conversation with Clare, who seems to have thawed slightly. Oh God, he's talking about his unruly pubic hair.

  "Richard!" I interject, smiling weakly at Harry and his wife. "I'm sure Clare doesn't want to hear about your bodily foibles."

  "Au contraire." He pokes his tongue out at me. "Clare is a beautician who specializes in Brazilians. And I'm not talking about Ronaldo."

  Harry laughs. "I've got one."

  Suddenly, Kara's seemingly staid boss and his wife have metamorphosed in my mind's eye into major swingers, the kind of couples who send naked pictures of each other to porn mags and advertise for threesomes. The alcohol must already be working its magic.

  "Got one what?" It's Kara, smiling engagingly at Harry.

  "A naked nob, dear, that's what," chips in Richard. "Your boss here . . ." He jerks his head towards Harry. ". . . has had his bits shaved by Sweeney Todd here." He jerks it towards Clare, who's grinning as broadly as her weeny mouth will let her.

  Kara's face is a Kodak moment. Bug-eyed, her brain is clearly computing Richard's words, followed swiftly no doubt by the imagined image of her boss's hairless genitalia. "I see," is all she can muster, before lowering her eyes and fixating on the plate of food in front of her.


  The evening I was dreading is suddenly turning out to be tremendous fun, and I take an extra-large glug of wine in celebration. After so many torturous times where it's been me flailing around in the social sea while Kara menacingly circles me, it's deliciously satisfying to see her verbally harpooned for a change.

  But, silly me, I should have known the feeling would be short lived. She regroups swiftly and her revenge arrives around the same time as the pudding.

  "So, Jess, seen any more married men lately?" Her remark is loud and aggressive enough to stop everyone else's conversation in its tracks.

  Clare, who has hitherto been throwing me the occasional warm smile, suddenly looks at me as if I were the anti-Christ in stilettos, intent on stealing her husband. I could be mistaken, but Harry appears to edge a bit closer in my direction.

  "Actually, I've been on a couple more dates since then." I scowl. "And they were both very nice and very single." I'm inwardly praying that Richard, who knows the disappointing truth, doesn't drop me in it. For once, he keeps his powder puff dry.

  Kara sniffs and looks unconvinced. "Jess has joined an Internet dating site," she tells Harry. "But the first man turned out to be married."

  I can feel my face flush scarlet. "Correction, Kara. You signed me up to the site and the first one may have been married."

  "Whatever." She waves her hand dismissively.

  Harry has definitely edged closer, and his leg is now pressed firmly against mine. Almost imperceptibly, he's now rubbing it backwards and forwards. Help.

  "I can't imagine a girl as pretty as Jess would need to trawl the net for dates," he says. "There must be hundreds of men out there who'd love to . . ."

  Love to what, he doesn't say. For which I should probably be thankful, particularly as Clare is now giving me a psychotic stare that makes Glenn Close's character in Fatal Attraction look like Miss Congeniality.

  "Hear hear." It's Dan, grinning broadly at me. "I'd give it a go."