by Jane Green
“Yup. We’re women of the nineties,” I say. “And anyway I’m not bothered about getting married, I’m far too interested in my career.”
God, if only that were true.
“So how is work?” says Dad, and, as usual, I dredge up all the work stories which fascinate them both, and I tell them about Amanda, expecting them to laugh, which my dad does, except he suppresses it pretty damn quickly when he sees my mother’s expression.
“That’s not very nice of you, Libby. Don’t you think you ought to tell her?”
“Oh, Mum,” I groan. “It’ll be fine. She’d pose naked if she thought it would get her publicity.”
“Well. You know best.” She says it with raised eyebrows, meaning I don’t know best and she disapproves.
“So how’s Olly?” I ask finally, knowing that the only way to put her in a truly good mood is to ask about my beloved brother, the apple of her eye.
“Being a rascal as usual,” she says. “Loving his job, and breaking all the girls’ hearts, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Much as I hate to admit it, I adore my brother. Twenty-six years old, drop-dead gorgeous, he has me in fits of laughter whenever I see him, which isn’t nearly as often as I’d like. He’s the kind of person that everyone instantly adores, and although I sometimes feel I ought to be jealous of that, of his easygoing nature, I’m not, and the only time I get slightly pissed off with him is when he tells me to lay off Mum.
When we were children, though, I hated him. I hated him for always being clever, and sporty, and popular. For never putting a foot wrong, for so obviously being Mum’s favorite. And then, when I left home to go to university, things suddenly changed, and on my first holiday at home he stopped being an annoying little brother and started being an equal.
It helped that he began smoking as well, and we’d both lock ourselves in my room and puff furiously out the window, spraying huge amounts of sickly sweet air freshener around when we finished. He was the first person to introduce me to spliff, showing me how to take a large Rizla and sprinkle it first with tobacco, then slightly burnt bits of hash, and roll it into a joint, suspiciously similar to a super-plus Tampax.
But naturally Mum never knew. She’d shout and scream at me for drinking or smoking or coming back late at night, but Olly could do no wrong, and the older I got the more we laughed about it together, and suddenly Olly was sticking up for me and telling Mum that I hadn’t been drinking, or shagging, or whatever.
And she’d listen to Olly. She’d start off on a rant, and Olly would come in and say he’d bumped into me earlier and I’d been with Susie, and she must have got the wrong end of the stick, and she’d believe him!
We even talked about sharing a flat together for a while, but then I decided that, love him as I do, I couldn’t put up with his mess, so I got the flat and he got the job in Manchester.
And he’s happy. He loves it there. He rents a huge flat in Didsbury, works for a large TV company as a producer and hits all the clubs on the weekend. He doesn’t have a serious girlfriend—relationship trouble must run in the family—but he has more than his fair share of flings. I call him every weekend, usually waking him from the depths of yet another killer hangover, and more often than not he has to call me back when the result of last night’s session has put her makeup on and gone.
And he’s the best person to sort out my love life, other than Jules. He’s not as wise as Jules, but he’s bloody good at giving the male perspective on things, and I’ve spent many hours on the phone to him working out strategies for catching the man of my dreams.
“How’s his job?” I ask, because I’ve been a bit too caught up with my own life to call him recently.
“He’s got a new program about food,” she says proudly, puffing out her chest with pride, because television producing is something she knows about. At least she should do, the amount of TV she watches. PR, as far as she’s concerned, doesn’t count. She can’t boast about her daughter working in PR because she’s never really understood what it’s all about, even though I’ve tried to explain it a million times, and anyway she doesn’t think I should be working. She thinks I should be at home cooking delicious meals for my husband, who’s out making lots of money to keep me and my ten children in the style to which she’d like me to become accustomed. Anyone would think she was living in the bloody Dark Ages. But a television producer? That’s something she understands, something she has tangible evidence of, and “my son the television producer”? It’s become her catchphrase.
“Food?” I laugh. “But Olly doesn’t know the first thing about food, unless it’s about takeaway curries and hamburgers.”
“It’s called The Gourmet Vegetarian.” Evidently she’s decided to ignore my last comment.
“The Gourmet what?” Now this I really can’t believe. “But Olly’s your classic meat and two veg man.”
“I know,” she says, “and quite frankly I don’t understand all this vegetarian nonsense, I’m convinced you all do it because it’s fashionable, but there it is.” And she looks at me pointedly while I glance away because any chance to get a dig in and she’ll be there with a shovel.
Yes, okay, so? I was vegetarian once, for about eighteen months, and I could say that it was because of cruelty to animals, but actually it was because all my friends were doing it so I decided to do it too. And it was fine. I didn’t even miss meat. But all that stuff about vegetarians being healthy is crap. Sure, it’s true if you eat salads and nuts all the time, but me? I lived on bread, cheese, eggs and pastry, and I ballooned. I remember the first time I ate meat again, I was out with some friends, different ones, carnivores—and we’d gone to get Chinese takeaway and I stood in the shop, smelling all these delicious smells, and everyone was ordering sweet-and-sour pork and lemon chicken, and I stood there and thought, fuck it. If I have to eat stir-fried vegetables again I’m going to scream, so I didn’t. I had barbecued pork spareribs. And it was delicious. And I never looked back.
But Olly making a program about gourmet anything is ridiculous. And I say so.
“He’s already reading cookery books,” says Mum proudly, “and you know Olly, he’ll be an expert before you know it. I can’t think why neither of you has inherited my cooking skills.”
“I can cook!” I practically shout.
“Libby, dear, spag bol is hardly cooking.”
“Excuse me, Mum, but, bearing in mind you’ve never eaten at my flat, how would you know whether I can cook or not?
“As it happens,” I continue, on a bit of a roll now, “I’m an excellent cook.”
“Are you?” she says, sounding bored. “So what’s your best dish?”
Shit. I sit there trying to think of something and nope, the mind’s gone blank.
“I can cook anything,” I bluster.
“Yes, dear,” she says, and that’s it. I’ve had enough.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, standing up and going over to my dad to kiss him goodbye.
“Off so soon?” he says, lowering the newspaper again.
“Yup. You know how it is. Things to do, people to see.”
“But Libby,” says Mum, “you’ve only been here five minutes.”
More like a bloody hour, and whatever it is it’s about an hour too long.
“Sorry, Mum. I’ll speak to you in the week.” And I dash out before she can start making me feel guilty.
I get in the minicab I called earlier and switch my mobile on immediately. Damn. No messages. But what was I expecting? That Nick would call and say he was missing me? Hardly. But then it starts to ring and Jules’s number appears on the little screen and I pick up the phone.
“Where’ve you been?” she moans. “Your mobile’s been off. I hate it when you do that.”
“Sorry,” I say, settling back into the car seat and lighting a fag before I look up and see my mum twitching at the curtains. “Shit. Hold on.” I haven’t even told the bloody driver where we’re going. “Ladbroke Grove,” I say to h
im, and I wave at my mum as we crawl down the street until I’m out of view, and then I put the phone back to my ear. Mobile phones, naturally, are yet another “modern appliance” my mother can’t quite get to grips with.
“So?” she says.
“So?” I laugh.
“So how was it?”
“Amazing,” I say. “It was so nice, he’s so nice.”
“And did you stay at his?”
“Yup. And we had fantastic sex again.” I drop my voice to a whisper so the driver can’t hear.
“And is his flat as disgusting as you thought?”
“Oh God, Jules,” I groan. “Worse. Much, much worse.”
“How so?”
“Just such a bloody mess. Honestly, Jules, it’s a good job this is just a fling because I couldn’t live like that. I don’t know how he manages.”
“Was it dirty?”
“No, although the sheets didn’t exactly smell of Persil, but it was just grotty.”
“Okay. The real test is the bathroom. Doesn’t matter what the rest of the flat’s like as long as they’ve got a decent bathroom.”
Hmm. Interesting. “Actually, the bathroom was fine. Nice, in fact. And he lied about not having a bath!”
“No stains to be seen?”
“No. Sparkling clean.”
“Thank God for that. I don’t care if a man lives in a pit as long as he’s clean.”
“He’s definitely clean,” I say, remembering his lovely, clean, masculine smell.
“You’re not in love, then?”
“God no! We ended up having a chat about things last night.” I relay the conversation, word for word, touch for touch, to Jules, who listens carefully and then says the same bloody thing as yesterday.
“You’re sure you can handle it?”
“Of course! Jules, listen, if I thought he was going to be serious I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?”
“Hmm.”
“But anyway, after that talk we both know exactly where we stand and it’s fine.”
“As long as you don’t get hurt.”
“Shut up, Jules, you know I hate that expression.”
And it’s true. I do. Why do people bother saying it, I mean what’s the choice? You lock yourself away in an attic and never go out because you’re frightened of getting hurt? Bollocks. As far as I’m concerned you have to give every relationship your all because if you’re going to get hurt, you’re going to get hurt, but at least at the end of it you’ll know you gave it your best shot.
Although I’m not planning to give this relationship, or fling, or whatever this is, my all, at least not when we’re out of the bedroom. No, this feels good. Healthy. I’m in control, and that’s something I have very little experience of. Hell, I haven’t even thought of Nick since I left him. Not much. Oh, okay, not as much as I’ve thought about boyfriends in the past, then. Happy now?
You probably think I’m lying, but it’s true, because in the past I’ve thought about new boyfriends every second of every day. Well, almost. This is what I’ve never understood about men. No matter how crazy they are about you, they can get on with their lives, their work, their friends, and not give you a second thought. When they do think of you, which is generally when they’re not thinking of anything else, they’ll pick up the phone and call you, completely oblivious to the fact that you’ve been sitting there crying for a week because they haven’t called.
Personally I think it’s because men are crap at juggling. I’m not talking about juggling work and children and all that rubbish, but just doing more than one thing at once. Women can iron, watch TV, chat on the phone and answer the doorbell all at the same time, but men? Men can only do one thing at one time. Ever try chatting to a man when he’s trying to park the car? Exactly. He’ll ignore you because he can only concentrate on one thing at a time. So we get on with our lives while they take up space in our heads, rent-free, and they get on with their lives without giving us another thought.
And I’m not saying that our way is right. Jesus. The number of times I’ve wished I could stop thinking about someone and get on with work, but I can’t. Once they’re in your head, they’re there for keeps until they either dump you or you manage to get over them. To be honest I find the whole process completely exhausting, and that’s why, sitting in the car on the phone to Jules, I decide that I’m not going to do it this time. In fact, I’m fed up with talking about him, remembering him, analyzing him.
“Jules, I’ve got to go,” I say.
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Home, but I’ve got to get into a bath and I’m in a minicab and I really can’t talk.”
“Okay. Will you call me later?”
“Yup. Are you in?”
“Yup.”
And when I get home I jump in the bath, and as I lie there, soaking in lavender-scented bubbles, I remind myself that I’m not going to think about Nick, but then I think, a few thoughts wouldn’t hurt, so I decide to allow myself three minutes of thinking about Nick and that’s it, at least for today.
So once his three minutes are up I pick up a book and start reading, and every time Nick threatens to creep back into my head (which is about once every two pages) I push him out again until I’m so immersed in the book I genuinely don’t think about him, and when Jules calls me later I’m in the middle of a good Sunday night film, which, I think you’ll agree, is a perfectly valid reason not to talk to your best friend given that TV’s normally shit on a Sunday night, and by the time I climb into bed I’m so tired I haven’t got the energy to think about Nick even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Just in case you’re wondering.
Sal calls the next day about the interview, and because I’m still basking in that old postcoital glow and feeling more than a little magnanimous, I try Amanda Baker out on Sal.
“Amanda who?” she says, and I groan.
“You know, Sal,” I say. “The showbiz reporter on Breakfast Break.”
“As if I’m ever up early enough to watch Breakfast Break.”
“She’s the blond one, very stunning.” I know already I’m on to a losing battle.
“Nope. Don’t know.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in doing a feature on her, then?”
“Come on, Libby, you know I can’t write about someone nobody knows.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know. Anyway, how’s the big love of your life?”
And sure enough, her voice goes all dreamy. “He’s wonderful,” she says. “Really, Libby, this is completely different to all of the others.”
“Which others?” I say, because truth to be told I’ve never heard Sal really talk about men before.
“Just all of them.”
“How long is it since you had a relationship?” I ask curiously.
“Bloody years,” she says. “Up until now I haven’t really done relationships, I just seem to do flings. And generally with married men. Bastards.”
And we both laugh.
“What are you doing after work?” she then says, and I can tell from her voice that she’s desperate to talk about Paul, to tell me every little detail about him, and even though I know I’ll be bored, you never know, I might find something out about Nick, and I don’t really have any plans unless you count watching Brookside.
We arrange to meet at the Paradise Bar, equidistant to work and home, and I say I’ll see her there at 7 P.M.
And I get a hell of a lot of work done that afternoon. I sit there phone-bashing, and I manage to persuade two journalists to write about Rita Roberts, as well as organizing the launch for Sean Moore’s series. All in all, a good day’s work, and the best thing about it is I hardly think about Nick at all, except to congratulate myself that I’ve hardly thought about him at all, if you know what I mean.
And I’m looking forward to seeing Sal. She may not be someone I see that much, but I always have a good time when I’m with her, there seems to be so much to talk about—maybe that’s bec
ause we lead such separate lives, there’s an awful lot to fill each other in on.
I’m really happy that she’s found Paul. I’ve always thought that Sal would make a perfect wife and mother, because, even though she’s only a year older than me, there’s something incredibly warm and maternal about her, and I’ve never understood why she’s been single for so long. She never seems to have problems attracting men, but they always run off soon afterward, perhaps that whole maternal stuff scares them a bit. But Sal, more than anyone else, needs to be in a relationship. She makes her own bloody marmalade, for God’s sake, how could anyone resist that?
She’s there when I arrive at the Paradise, sitting in a corner table at one side of the bar, and she gives me a huge hug and kiss on the cheek when I walk over.
“I’m completely starving,” she says. “Shall we reserve a table for later in the restaurant?”
“Fine,” I say, “I’ll do it,” because I’m already standing up, and as I walk off she calls me back.
“Ask for a table for three,” she says. “Nick’s going to join us later, is that okay?”
“Oh,” I say, slightly flummoxed, because I don’t know whether Sal knows about us, and why didn’t he call me, and am I excited about seeing him or am I nervous and should I tell Sal and how should I act when he arrives, but fuck it, Nick’s coming!
I get a drink on the way back to the table and sit down, one eye on the door to see Nick when he comes, and Sal starts telling me all about Paul.
“He’s just so thoughtful,” she says. “He keeps buying me these little presents.” And she holds out her arm to show off a beautiful silver charm bracelet. I make the appropriate oohing and aahing noises, and though I’m listening to her, I’m suddenly desperate to talk about Nick, to tell her about him, but somehow I don’t quite know how to do it.
“So do you think he’s The One?” I say, which is a question I always ask my girlfriends when they start going out with someone, not so much because I want to know the answer, but more because I want to know how they know, and whether I’ll know too. Jules says I’m an idealist, that I have this ridiculously romantic notion of being swept off my feet and knowing instantly when I meet the man I’m going to marry, and I suppose she’s right. Maybe because I’ve never really had long relationships, I’ve always thought that it would happen really quickly, that I’d meet someone, we’d fall in love, and we’d probably both know by the end of our first evening that this was It. I’m not sure how I’d know, but I’m convinced I would. The only problem with that is, as Jules keeps pointing out, I think I know with all of them.
