Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

  I started putting myself “out there” again. Going to bars, parties, launches. And even though I felt like shit I pretended to have a good time, and after a couple of months I realized that I actually was having a good time, and that was when I decided that I’d had enough of men. At least for a while.

  Yup, I thought. No more bastards for me. But then about six months on I started getting withdrawal symptoms. Not from Jon, but from cuddles, affection and, all right, I’ll admit it, from sex. Now I know there’s a cutoff point. I know that when you’ve been used to having regular sex with someone you miss it for about six months, and that after that you don’t really think about it anymore because it’s just not a part of your life, and then when you finally do it again you’re astounded that you went without it for so long because it’s so damn nice. I know this because I’ve had two BIG dry periods in my life. One for ten months and one for . . . God, I don’t even know whether I want to tell you. Okay. One for two years.

  I know. Twenty-seven bloody years old and I went without sex for two years. Sad, isn’t it?

  I was probably just about to reach the cutoff point where sex stopped being important, when, instead of waiting for those horny moods to disappear, I decided I’d have a fling. I don’t want a relationship, I thought. I just want sex. That’s all.

  I was in that rare state of mind that women always tell you to aspire to, but which you usually find impossible to reach. That state of mind that is completely happy without a man, isn’t looking for anyone, is completely fulfilled by work and friends.

  And I really was. I realized, post-Jon-trauma, that I definitely didn’t want to be in a relationship with someone unless they were absolutely right, and, let’s face it, how often do you meet someone who you really fancy and really like? Exactly.

  I do what most women do. I meet someone and some of it’s right, maybe he looks right, or has the right job, or the right background, and, instead of sitting back and waiting for him to reveal his other bits, I make them up. I decide how he thinks, how he’s going to treat me, and, sure enough, every time I conclude that this time he’s definitely my perfect man, and all of a sudden, well, not so suddenly perhaps, usually around six months after we’ve split up, I see that he wasn’t the person I thought he was at all.

  So that’s where I’m at when Sal phones, and I haven’t seen her for ages, and she invites me out, breathless with excitement about her new boyfriend, and when I arrive at the bar Nick is there and he remembers me, and that’s that.

  Well, not quite, but more of that later. So you would have thought I’d have learned my lesson after Jon, but have I? Have I? Have I hell. Except with Nick I know from the beginning that I’ll never be able to fill in the blanks and reach a conclusion I’ll be happy with. And so that night, that night in the bar when there suddenly seems to be this amazing chemistry, I decide that Nick will be my fling, that he’ll be perfect for a few weeks of brilliant sex, that I won’t get involved, and that we’ll probably stay friends.

  And I feel really strong. I feel, for the first time in my life, that I can actually do this. That I can have sex with someone and not get emotionally involved, not suddenly start dreaming of marriage and babies and a happy ever after. I feel like a woman. I feel like a grown-up.

  “Libby!” cries Sal, flinging her arms around me in a huge bear hug. “God, it’s been ages. Look at you! You look fantastic!” This, incidentally, is the way Sally speaks. In exclamation marks.

  “Thanks,” I say, believing her because who, after all, wouldn’t look fantastic in their brand-new, superexpensive, long, pale gray, cotton-ribbed cardigan, teamed with gray flannel trousers and sexy high-heeled black boots. “So do you,” I add, although Sal always looks the same to me. With her natural auburn hair in a sort of fluffy medium-length layered bob, she always looks good in a timeless sort of way because Sal doesn’t believe in following fashion, she believes in finding the look that suits you and wearing it until you die.

  So, as I said, she always looks pretty much the same. Long, flowing skirts, occasionally jodhpurs, riding boots, fitted jackets and a silk scarf knotted casually around her throat. Tonight it’s the turn of the jodhpurs, and I see why.

  “Jesus, Sal,” I say, stepping back, because there is something different about her tonight. “You’ve lost so much weight.”

  “Have I!” she says, with a cheesy grin, because of course she knows she has. She’d never dare wear those camel-colored skintight jodhpurs if she hadn’t. “Must be love!” she whispers loudly, taking my hand and leading me to a table in the corner. “You must come and meet the others.”

  What an, er, eclectic, bunch. This is something that I’ve always admired about Sal: her choice in friends, her willingness to mix and match, just to throw people together and not worry about the consequences. I, on the other hand, spend my life in a constant panic about whether people will get on with one another, desperately trying to keep my groups of friends separate. There are my trendy media friends, mostly people I’ve met through work; my university friends; my oldest friends from school; and my art class friends, except I haven’t been for ages so I haven’t really seen them recently. And then there’s Jules, who’s my take-anywhere friend, because she’s the one person who fits in with everyone.

  But Sal doesn’t discriminate, and I can see that there are a few familiar faces.

  “Hi,” I say with a smile to Kathy, Sal’s oldest friend, a tall stunning blonde who oozes style and sophistication and seems to have a constant stream of equally gorgeous men at her side.

  “Libby,” she says, stretching out a smooth tanned cheek to kiss the air next to mine. “How are you? It’s been so long. You must meet Phil,” and she gestures to the drop-dead gorgeous hunk at her side.

  “Delighted to meet you,” he says, in possibly one of the poshest voices I’ve ever heard, and holds out his hand to shake mine, which floors me for a few moments because outside the office nobody I know shakes hands, but then I realize why he’s holding out his hand, so, surreptitiously trying to wipe my damp palms on my cardigan, I shake his hand firmly and say a businesslike “How do you do,” because I can’t be too friendly to someone this gorgeous in case Kathy thinks I’m flirting with him, which I’d never do, and as soon as I say it I turn away to see who else I know.

  “You remember Paul,” says Sal, putting a stool down next to a baby-faced scruffy young man sipping from a pint who I know is her latest boyfriend, but I’m not sure why I should remember him.

  “Umm.” I’m not sure I do, actually.

  “Of course you do,” she says. “Paul worked with me on the Sunday Mail.”

  “Oh, Paul!” I say. “That Paul. Sorry. God, finally I can put a face to the name.”

  He grins at me. “I know what you mean. You must spend all day talking to journalists and never knowing what they look like.”

  “Unless,” I say, grinning cheekily, suddenly remembering that I have seen him before, “unless, the journalist in question has been out for the day wearing a miniskirt to test the latest men’s fashion.”

  “Shit,” he groans. “I thought I’d lived that one down.” And we both laugh.

  “And Nick,” says Sal, making big eyes at me which I don’t quite understand, but then I turn to Nick and realize that he’s the one she used to fancy and that she’s trying to warn me telepathically not to say anything. “You must remember Nick.”

  Nick turns to look at me, and nods. “Hi, Libby,” he says, and somehow the way he says my name makes it sound really intimate, and I feel a tiny shiver at the base of my spine.

  Hello? What’s this all about, then? And I look closely at Nick and it’s as if I’m seeing him for the first time. God, I think. I never realized his eyes were that blue. And he’s had his hair cut. It’s not in a straggly ponytail any more, it’s a short buzz cut that brings out these incredible sculpted cheekbones, and Jesus, he’s handsome, and in an instant I remember what that shiver is. Lust. Pure and simple.

  Thi
s could be my fling, I think, settling back into my chair and switching into flirt mode. Nick. Perfect.

  “So what have you been up to?” he says, giving me what is definitely an appreciative glance.

  “Working hard as usual,” I say, instantly regretting how dull it sounds, and racking my brain for an amusing story.

  “I like your hair,” he says, and another shiver goes through me. “You’ve changed it.”

  And I have. I’d had long hair, dead straight, and a fringe the last time I saw Nick. Now it’s shoulder-length, no fringe, and flicking up at the bottom.

  “You’re not supposed to remember hair,” I laugh. “You’re a bloke.”

  “You’d be surprised at what I remember,” he says with a smile.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The last time I saw you was at Sal’s party two years ago,” he says.

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “Not impressed. Any bloke would remember that.”

  “You had your hair up,” he continues, still smiling. “And you were wearing black leather trousers, sneakers and a bright orange T-shirt which said ‘Bizarre’ on it.”

  “Jesus Christ.” My mouth is hanging open. “Now I am impressed. How the hell do you remember what I was wearing?”

  He shrugs. “I told you you’d be surprised.”

  “No, but seriously,” I push, “how did you remember that?”

  “Let’s just say I have a very good memory for things I want to remember.”

  “Oh,” I say in a small voice, as it dawns on me that maybe he wasn’t being standoffish all those times I had met him. Maybe he fancied me? Maybe?

  “So the exciting world of PR is still as exciting as ever, then?” he says.

  “I know you think PR’s a complete waste of time,” I start, even though I don’t know, I just suspect, “but it suits me. I like it.”

  “I don’t think it’s a waste of time.” He sounds surprised. “And when my novel becomes a best-seller you’ll probably be the first people I come to.”

  “You’ve got a deal?” My voice is high with excitement. This is getting better and better. If Nick’s signed a deal, then he’s got money, and if he’s got money that instantly makes him eligible, and if he’s eligible, then, and only then, can I imagine us together.

  “Nah,” he sighs. “Still trying.”

  “Oh. What’s the book about?” I’m being polite, okay? I think he’ll just give me a two-minute synopsis, but ten minutes later he stops, seeing my eyes glaze over.

  “Shit, I’m sorry. I’ve bored you.”

  “No, no,” I say quickly, shaking my mind awake. “I just don’t know all that much about politics, so it doesn’t mean a great deal to me.

  “But it sounds excellent,” I add enthusiastically. “I can’t believe it hasn’t been published.”

  “I know,” he says sadly. “Neither can I.

  “What are you drinking?” He stands up, and I tell him a sea breeze if they’ve got it, and if they haven’t got any cranberry juice then a vodka and soda with a dash of lime.

  “Well,” says Sal in a knowing voice when he’s gone off to get the drinks. “You and Nick seem to be getting on rather well.”

  I shrug. “He seems nice, that’s all. I never realized.”

  “You should go for it,” she says. “I could see you two together.”

  “You don’t fancy him anymore then?” I whisper.

  “Don’t be daft,” she laughs. “I’ve got Paul now. I don’t know what I ever saw in Nick—” She stops, realizing what she’s just said. “I didn’t mean that, he’s gorgeous, it’s simply that I see now we would never have been right together. You, on the other hand—”

  I laugh. “Sal! You’re crazy. I can’t see us together at all.”

  “Why not?” She looks startled, and I remember how she doesn’t think about the important things, about our lifestyles, how different we are.

  “Just look at us,” I say, feebly gesturing at my designer clothes, and then pointing at Nick, at his dirty jeans, his scruffy loose sweater with holes in the sleeves, his scuffed Doc Martens.

  “What?” she says again, brow furrowed because she isn’t getting it. “What am I looking at?”

  “Oh, never mind,” I laugh. “He’s definitely not the one for me, but he is nice. He’s really quite sexy.”

  “Maybe you should just get together and see what happens,” she says, smiling, leaning back to make way for Nick, who’s returning with a fresh round of drinks.

  “Maybe I should,” I say, thinking that the getting together bit would suit me just perfectly right now, but I know what would happen. We wouldn’t fit, is what would happen. But that’s okay, I remind myself. I don’t want a potential husband or even a boyfriend. I just want some fun. No strings attached.

  “What are you two gossiping about?” says Nick, and I can tell from his smile his ears were burning.

  “Er, just work,” says Sal, who is completely crap at lying.

  “I see,” he says, sitting down and sliding my vodka over to me. “Not discussing men, then, were you?”

  “No!” says Sal, giving me a hugely indiscreet thumbs-up and turning to snuggle into Paul’s shoulder.

  Nick and I talk all evening, and, once the book is out of the way, it turns out that he really is interesting, and funny, and different.

  “If you won the lottery what would you do?” he asks at one point, and I practically squeal with pleasure because I love questions like this.

  “How much?”

  “Whatever,” he says.

  “No, no. You have to do it properly. You have to name a figure.”

  “Okay,” he says, grinning. “Five million pounds.”

  I sit back, thinking about all the lovely things I could buy with five million pounds.

  “Well,” I start. “I’d buy a house.”

  “What kind of house and where?”

  “One of those huge white ones in Holland Park.”

  “You do realize that would set you back about three million quid.”

  “Oh. Okay. A small white one in Maida Vale.”

  “For how much?”

  “Five hundred thousand?”

  He nods. “And how would you decorate it?”

  I describe my dream house, except I get a bit lost after I’ve done the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen and the bedroom, because I’ve never had to think about any other rooms.

  “What about the dining room?” Nick asks. “What about bedroom number four? What about your second bathroom? What about the study?”

  “Oh, God,” I finally groan. “Too many rooms. Maybe I’ll just settle for an amazing two-bedroom flat with huge rooms and a split-level galleried bit to work in.”

  “So. You’ve got four and a half million left.”

  “No, a bit less. I’d probably spend about a hundred thousand doing it up.”

  He looks at me as if I’m crazy, then shakes his head and laughs. “Okay, 4.4 million pounds to go. What else?”

  “I’d buy a holiday home in the Caribbean.”

  “You’re big on homes, aren’t you?”

  “What do you expect? I’m a child of Thatcher’s generation.”

  “Hmm,” he sniffs. “Don’t tell me you voted for her?”

  “No,” I lie expertly, saying what I always say. “I voted for the Green Party.”

  “Did you?” He looks, well, if not impressed, at least not completely pissed off, and for a moment I think of telling him the truth, that I don’t give a stuff about politics and the only reason I voted Tory was because my parents had, that it could have been anyone leading my country. I just didn’t care.

  I decide to keep lying.

  “Yes,” I say, nodding. “None of the other parties seemed to offer anything, and you know what politicians are like. They’re all untrustworthy bastards.” This last line I’d heard at a party, and I thought it sounded rather good, like I knew what I was talking about and it works. Nick nods in agreement, as i
f I’ve just said something very sensible.

  “Anyway,” I continue, bringing the conversation back to more familiar footing. “My house in the Caribbean.”

  “Ah, yes,” he says, smiling. “That’s far more important than politics.”

  “Absolutely.” I go on to describe the house I would build on the tiny island of Anguilla.

  “So we’re about a million down,” he says. “What else?”

  “I’d probably take about a hundred thousand and go on a mad shopping spree,” I admit.

  “A hundred thousand? Jesus Christ. What would you be shopping for? Diamonds and pearls?”

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “Far too old for my youthful years. I’d go to Armani, Prada, Gucci . . .”

  “Top Shop?” asks Nick. “Oasis?”

  “Are you crazy?” I say. “I’d never demean myself by stepping foot in anywhere like that.”

  “Oh, right.” He grins. “Of course. How stupid of me.” And he holds out his hand, which I slap very gently.

  “Anyway,” I say, “how come you know about Oasis?”

  “I know a lot of things,” he laughs.

  “You’re not really a bloke, are you?” I say, narrowing my eyes and squinting at him. “You’re a girl.”

  “Damn,” he says, shaking his head and laughing. “And I hoped you hadn’t noticed.”

  At about three million pounds I run out of ideas. I have, by this point, two homes, a wardrobe that would make Oprah Winfrey jealous, a convertible Porsche 911, a live-in cleaning woman who doesn’t actually live with me, but in the granny flat I stick on to the basement of my house and numerous investments in property. I don’t know what to do with the rest.

  “I’d, er, give the rest to charity,” I say magnanimously, hoping he won’t ask which ones, because I couldn’t name a charity if my life depended on it, and anyway I might give a bit to charity, but I honestly can’t see me donating two million quid. No matter how worthy.

  “Which charity?” he asks. He would.

  “I’d give to a few. That breast cancer one. The . . .”—I think hard—“NSPCC.” I remember those little blue plastic collection boxes they used to give you at school. “AIDS research, lots to them. And animal charities! Yes, I’d give loads to animal charities so no more little ponies and horses in my cat food.