Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

  “What about you?” I look at Nick. “What would you do?”

  He sits and thinks about it for a bit. “I don’t think I’d move,” he says. “There’s no real point because I’m quite happy.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Highgate.”

  “Do you live by yourself?” But that isn’t what I’m asking. I’m asking whether he owns his own flat, whether he is responsible, whether he can support a wife. But no, I stop myself, I’m not going to be his wife. He’s not going to be my husband. It doesn’t matter.

  “Mmm.” He nods. “I’ve got a bedsit, and I suppose I could get a one-bedroom flat, but I’m happy where I am.”

  “You’d have to buy somewhere,” I say sternly. “You’ve got to get your foot on the ladder.” Another phrase I’ve picked up somewhere that I always use when talking about property.

  “Do I? Why?”

  “Because . . .” I suddenly don’t know why, other than that I’ve been brought up to believe that everyone should own their own house if they possibly can.

  “Because you’re one of Thatcher’s children, right?”

  “Well, so are you,” I say in my defense.

  “Ish,” he says.

  “Ish?”

  “I may be only a couple of years older than you, but my parents were dyed-in-the-wool Labour supporters.”

  “But you grew up during Thatcher’s time.”

  “So does that mean I was supposed to believe in her?”

  “No, it’s just sometimes hard to go against what you’ve been brought up to believe in.”

  “It wasn’t what I was brought up to believe in.”

  I’m getting out of my depth. I stand up. “Another pint?” and he laughs.

  “So okay, you won’t buy a mansion,” I say when I come back.

  “No, no,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about it and you’re probably right. I should buy somewhere, but it wouldn’t be anything amazing. I might even buy the flat I’m living in.”

  I look at him in horror. “A bedsit?”

  “Okay,” he laughs. “I’ll buy a one-bedroom flat.”

  “What else, what else?”

  He sits deep in thought. “I know!” he suddenly exclaims, his eyes lighting up. “I’d buy a proper computer.”

  “You mean you’re writing a novel and you haven’t got a computer?” I say slowly.

  “I’ve got one of these typewriter things that has a tiny screen and you can see about three lines of what you’ve written on it.”

  “You must be spending a fortune on Wite-Out,” I say.

  “There we go.” He grins. “I’d buy a lifetime’s supply of Wite-Out.”

  “But you wouldn’t need Wite-Out if you had a computer.”

  “I might get nostalgic.”

  “For your battered old typewriter that takes forever and can’t go back and correct?”

  “How do you know it’s battered?”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, slightly. But it has character. Computers seem a bit clinical.”

  “Okay,” I sigh. “We’ve probably spent less than a hundred thousand so far. You’re not doing very well.”

  “I could donate a sizable amount to the Labour Party,” he says sheepishly.

  “How much?”

  “A million?”

  “You can’t give a million quid to bloody politicians!” I say in horror. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Sorry,” he says, looking it. “I’m just not very money-oriented.”

  “Evidently.” And luckily he laughs, and when he does I can’t help but notice how white his teeth are, how his face softens, how goddamned gorgeous he looks.

  “So,” says Sal, leaning over and interrupting us. “Have you got any good stories for me, then, Libby?”

  I sit and think. “Not really stories, but maybe you’d be interested in an interview with Sean Moore?”

  “Sean Moore!” Her eyes light up. “Are you doing him?”

  I nod. “We’re doing the PR for his new TV series, and I’m setting up a round of interviews in a couple of weeks. You should have got the press release, I sent it to you last week.”

  “Oh,” says Sal, looking guilty. “I probably did get it, but I get so many press releases, half the time I don’t even look at them.”

  “What?” I say in mock dismay. “You mean I go to all that trouble to think up something witty and clever, and it goes in the bin?”

  “No,” she says. “It joins the towering pile on my desk that’s threatening to topple over and knock someone out.”

  “You’re forgiven. . . .” I pause. “As long as you give Sean a good show.”

  “Double-page spread?”

  “That would be brilliant.”

  “One condition.”

  I know what’s coming.

  “Can we have it exclusively?”

  “I hate it when journalists say that,” I groan.

  “But you know why we do,” she says. “There’s no point in running an interview with Sean Moore after it’s appeared everywhere else.”

  “Tell you what,” I say. “I can’t promise you an exclusive because we have to try and get as much coverage as possible, but what I can do is give it to you first, but, and I mean this, Sal, you have to run it when you say you will.” I’m sick to the back teeth of giving newspapers exclusive interviews, running out to buy the paper in the morning and finding it isn’t there because another story was deemed to be more important. I then have to chase the journalist for days, and they usually keep telling me it’s going in, they just don’t know when, and before you know it the whole thing has been forgotten about.

  “I will.” She nods. “Promise.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Ring me in the office tomorrow.”

  At eleven o’clock everyone starts getting up to leave.

  “You know how it is,” says Kathy. “School night.” And we put on our coats and wander outside, standing around in a big huddle to say goodbye.

  “Where do you live?” asks Nick, just as I’m wondering how to say good night to him, and if, in fact, I want to say good night to him at all.

  “Ladbroke Grove.” The regret is obvious in my voice. I mean, there’s no way I can offer him a lift back to Highgate, it’s just too damn unsubtle. “Are you driving?” I say.

  He shakes his head. “No. I don’t drive.”

  “How do you get around?”

  “I cycle.”

  “So where’s your bike?”

  “I got the tube.”

  “Oh.”

  And then I have a brain wave. “Do you want a lift to the tube?”

  His face glows. “I’d love one.”

  And as we walk off I can see Sal grinning at me, and I can’t help it. I start grinning too.

  We walk to my car in silence. I stride along next to him, wondering why my heart is pounding, why I suddenly feel slightly sick, but once the engine is on and the music comes blaring out of the stereo, I start to relax a bit. I mean surely this is the perfect fling?

  Not that I want a one-night stand with Nick, just maybe a few weeks of delicious sex before saying goodbye with no broken hearts. One-night stands aren’t my style. I don’t think they’re anyone’s style, are they? Sure, we’ve all done it, but even when you can’t stand them, even when it’s just a drunken mistake after a party, you still want them to call, don’t you, even if it’s just so you can turn round and tell them you never want to see them again. It’s an ego thing. Definitely. I don’t want you, but I want you to want me anyway. So, I don’t want a one-night stand with Nick, but then there’s always the worry that it’ll be taken out of your control. You think there’s going to be a repeat experience and you sit by your phone and wait for weeks for them to call and they don’t, and unwittingly you’ve added another bloody one-night stand to your list.

  But as far as I’m concerned true one-nighters only really happen with strangers. When it’s someone you know, particularly som
eone who’s connected to you by friends, they usually do call again, and I sort of know, even while driving in the car that night, that no matter what happens Nick will call me again.

  And you see, in normal circumstances, I would never dream of sleeping with him on the first night, as it were. If I had looked at Nick and thought, yes, you could be The One, I would have given him my number and let him take me out a few times before even considering going to bed with him. I don’t put a time limit on it, though. As far as I’m concerned you just know when it feels right, but according to Jules you have to spend thirty-six hours in their company before you sleep with them. God knows where she got that from. Probably some trashy magazine, but I suppose that’s about seven dates, which sounds about right.

  Oh, all right, then, maybe after four dates.

  But if I stop being clinical about it, I suppose the time I decide I’m going to jump into bed with them is the time when I know, as an absolute certainty, that they are crazy about me and they aren’t going to disappear.

  Although I have got it wrong. But only once. That was Michael. We fell in love for two weeks, spent as much time together as we possibly could, and, although I knew I probably should have waited, it felt so right I just thought, fuck it, let’s have sex. Immediately afterward he was fine. It was only when he hadn’t called me for four days—and this was the man who had called me three times a day, every day, for two weeks—that I realized something was wrong. Sure enough. He’d changed his mind. I can’t even remember what shit he came out with. Something about not being ready for a relationship, blah blah blah. Usual crap. I was devastated. Devastated.

  But it taught me a lesson, and the only reason I’m choosing to unlearn the lesson with Nick is because Nick is never going to be my boyfriend, and when it’s just sex, the rules change.

  When it’s just sex, you’re allowed to be predatory, to make the first move, to entice them into bed, because it’s not necessary to make them fall in love with you.

  When it’s just sex you’re allowed to put your hand on their thigh while driving your car and say huskily, “Will you come back to mine for coffee?”

  When it’s just sex you’re allowed to lead them into your living room and kiss them passionately before they’ve even had a chance to take their coat off.

  And then you’re allowed to . . .

  Sorry, I’m jumping ahead of myself here. Where were we? Ah, yes, in the car, listening to music, and neither of us is actually saying anything because I don’t want to start just in case he tells me which tube station to drop him off at, so I keep driving, and eventually we turn into Ladbroke Grove and I have to say something, so I do.

  “The tube’s just down the road,” I say. Unimaginatively.

  “Oh,” he says. And I smile inside.

  “Do you want to come in for a coffee?” I say.

  “I’d love one,” he says. And he grins.

  So I park the car and I can’t look at Nick because I’m very aware of his presence, of the chemistry, of this unspoken agreement we are entering into, and I just unlock my front door and we both walk in.

  And you know what I love? Even though Nick isn’t boyfriend material, I love the fact that he seems to feel instantly at home.

  “Do you mind if I take my shoes off?” he says, and naturally I say no, although as I say it I pray he doesn’t have nasty socks with holes, or smelly feet, or something that will put me off him forever. And I take a quick glance, and his feet, or rather his socks, look really quite nice, and I can’t smell anything other than the smell of home, so I go into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  “You have incredible taste,” he says, wandering around, picking up things and putting them down. “Really,” he reiterates. “Such style.”

  “Thank you,” I say, going through the motions of putting the kettle on, and watching curiously to see where he’ll sit. If he sits on the chair, I think, I’m in trouble, because how can I maneuver myself into a position where he’ll kiss me? Maybe I can perch on the arm of the chair, I think, watching as he seems to hover ominously by the armchair.

  Phew. He seems to think twice about the chair and settles into the sofa. I kick my own shoes off, ready to curl up like a cat, bring the mugs to the coffee table, then panic about my makeup and quickly disappear into the bathroom.

  I blot the shine off my nose and forehead, and think about a fresh coat of lipstick, but no, too obvious, so I just shake my hair around a bit to give it a wild, wanton look, then sashay back into the living room to put on some music.

  Seduction music, I think. I need something soft, jazzy, sexy. Something that will put us both in the mood. I flick through the CDs until I find my fail-safe Sinatra CD. Perfect. It always worked in the past, and I put it on and turn the volume down so it’s barely throbbing in the background, then I walk over to the sofa where Nick is sipping his coffee and watching me.

  “I need a woman’s touch,” he says, as I curl up at the other end of the sofa, not wanting to sit too close, but knowing that I’m only a hop, skip and a touch away from the passion I’m so desperate for.

  I raise an eyebrow and he laughs.

  “I meant in the home,” he says, and I laugh too, then we both make big shows of drinking our coffee, although you can’t really drink it, it’s far too hot.

  “What’s your flat like, then?” I ask.

  “A hovel,” he says, and he laughs.

  “No, really,” I push.

  “Yes, really,” he says.

  “Why?” I ask, although quite frankly I’m not that surprised. Bachelor pads seem to fall into two categories. If the bachelor in question has money, it’s all black leather and chrome, with nasty airbrushed pictures of sports cars on the wall and huge, fuck-off TVs and stereos. And if he, like Nick, hasn’t got a pot to piss in, it will be overflowing with books and papers, and dirty clothes, and rubbish. Trust me. I know these things.

  “Well,” I say, raising my mug. “Here’s to winning the lottery.”

  After this we seem to relax. We talk about Sal, about her boyfriend, about us. I tell him I’m not into relationships, I’ve had enough of getting my heart broken and I’m not ready for anything serious.

  He nods intently while I say this, and says he knows how I feel. He grins and tells me he hasn’t had a serious relationship in two years, but that after his last—a miserable five-year relationship with Mary, who loved him but didn’t seem to like him very much—he definitely isn’t ready for commitment.

  And then he looks up at me with those incredible blue eyes and says, “But I’m very attracted to you,” and even though I’m the one who’s supposed to be in control, the one who’s made the decision to have a fling with him, my stomach turns over and does a little somersault and I start to feel ever so slightly sick.

  There’s a long silence, and then I say, “Thank you,” because I don’t know what else to say, and I can’t say that I’m very attracted to him too because it sounds really naff, and anyway he must know that because why else would I have invited him back.

  So we sit there in silence for a bit and then I offer him another coffee, even though I’ve hardly touched mine, and he shakes his head and my heart plummets.

  Shit, I think. Shit, shit, shit. He’s going to go home. Oh fuck. But he doesn’t. He grins and says, “You know what I’d really like?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “I’d really like a bath.”

  “A bath? Are you mad?”

  “I know it sounds bizarre, but I’ve only got a shower in my flat and I miss baths. Would you mind?”

  I shake my head, wondering what the hell this is about, because this is a completely new one on me. Am I supposed to sit here and file my nails while he has a bath, or am I supposed to talk to him? What on earth am I supposed to do?

  I don’t have to think about it for very long because just then the phone rings.

  “Hi, babe,” says Jules. “It’s me.”

  “Hi,” I say guardedly, in the
tone of voice that tells her this is perhaps not the best time to be calling.

  “Uh-oh,” she says. “Something tells me you’re not alone.”

  “Mmmhmm,” I say, as Nick gets up off the sofa and turns the music down slightly.

  “Who’s there?” she says. “It’s a bloke, isn’t it?”

  “Mmmhmm,” I say again, eyes widening slightly as Nick starts grinning manically at me, unbuttoning his shirt.

  “What’s going on?” she pleads, as I start giggling.

  “You really want to know what’s going on?” I say.

  “Yes!”

  “Okay,” I say, as Nick starts dancing around the room doing a bloody good imitation of a stripper, except it isn’t sexy, it’s very, very funny.

  “Okay,” I repeat. “There’s an extremely gorgeous man jumping around my living room and taking off his clothes.”

  Nick wiggles his hips in appreciation of my description of him.

  “Oh ha bloody ha,” says Jules. “Seriously. What’s going on?”

  “Seriously,” I say. “He’s about to take his shirt off.”

  Nick takes his shirt off.

  “And,” I continue, as lust starts to rise up from my groin, “he’s got a perfect washboard stomach.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she says, as I hold the phone out to Nick.

  “Hello,” he says, as I practically salivate over the sight of his lean, muscular, naked torso. “Who’s this?”

  There is a pause. “Nick,” I hear him say, as he unbuttons the fly of his jeans, giving me minor heart failure. “Having a bath,” he says next, and then he starts laughing as I grab the phone off him.

  “What did you say, what did you say?” I beg.

  “Bloody hell!” says Jules. “Now I believe you. But who the hell is Nick?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say, thanking God that Nick wears boxer shorts and not something disgusting like purple Y-fronts or those revolting briefs. “Can I call you tomorrow?”