Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

  Every time I meet someone new I ring Jules and tell her that this time it’s different, this time they’re different, and though I still think it I try not to tell her anymore because she just starts laughing and says that she’s got a very strong sense of déjà vu.

  And as far as Jules is concerned, you don’t necessarily know when you meet the man you’re going to marry. She’s the only person I know who says this. Everyone else I’ve spoken to—and believe me, I’ve done my research here—says they knew. Jules hated Jamie on their first date. I remember it clearly. She met him at a party and in her drunken stupor gave him her number and promptly forgot all about him. He phoned two weeks later (two weeks! Can you imagine if she’d fancied him and had to wait two weeks!), and she didn’t have a clue who he was. When he told her where they’d met, she still couldn’t remember him, but she agreed to go out for dinner with him just to see whether she had met him before.

  And even then she didn’t remember him, which she was bloody surprised about because he was so gorgeous she was convinced she wouldn’t forget a face like that. But being gorgeous does not necessarily mean you’re nice, and Jamie (I’ve heard his side of the story now, so I’ve got the whole picture) was so nervous he behaved like a total idiot. He spent the whole evening talking about himself, and drank so much he ended up with his face in a plate of passion fruit sorbet. Jules was disgusted. She walked out, and refused to take his calls or accept an apology.

  It was only when he turned up at her office with a huge bouquet of flowers and a very sheepish look on his face that she decided to give him a second chance, but she never, for a second, thought she’d marry him.

  And that’s why this whole thing with Nick is so refreshing, because I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he isn’t It, and normally I wouldn’t bother getting involved with someone unless there was potential there, but I just need some fun right now.

  “I really think he might be.” Sal answers my question. “And I’ve never felt that about anyone before.”

  “Really?” This is so alien to my own experience, I’m fascinated. “You’ve never thought that you’d marry someone before?”

  “God, no!” she laughs. “And if you’d met them you’d see why. Nah, even the short relationships I had in my early twenties were with self-obsessed assholes. That’s the difference, I’ve never been treated well before, and before I met Paul I didn’t even know what that could be like. I think the reason this is so different is because we were friends for so long, and I never even thought about Paul as anything other than as a good mate.”

  “So how did it happen?”

  “I hadn’t seen him for a while, and then he phoned me for a contact for a story he was doing, and we arranged to meet up for a drink. I hardly bothered making an effort, I mean it was Paul, for heaven’s sake, and then, when we met, we had the most brilliant evening and suddenly at the end there was all this weird chemistry, which blew my mind a bit.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  Sal starts laughing. “You’re joking! I didn’t even kiss him, even though I wanted to, and I could tell he wanted to as well, but I found the whole thing really confusing.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “He called me the next day to thank me for a really lovely evening, which, in itself, was weird, because in the past it had always been me phoning them to thank them for a lovely evening, which was actually just an excuse to phone them. And then he asked me out again, and that night something did happen, and that was that, really.

  “And the weirdest thing of all is that it feels so right. I suppose it’s true what they say, you never know it’s right until it is, although I’m really scared of saying that out loud just in case he turns out to be a bastard, but somehow I don’t think he will.”

  “And you know what?” she continues, as I shake my head. “I’ve never had anyone who looks after me before, and that’s what I love. In the past I’ve always been the one cooking for them, cleaning for them, probably doing way too much for them, whereas Paul’s the one who wants to do everything for me.”

  “And do you love it?” I say, and grin wickedly.

  Sal grins back. “I love it. So anyway, Libby, enough about me. What about you, you’ve always got this fantastically tempestuous love life. Who’s the latest?”

  “Well, actually,” I’m just about to tell her, when I see the door open and Nick walks in. Sal sees me looking over her shoulder and turns round.

  “Nick!” She stands up and waves, and he comes over to join us.

  “My favorite redhead,” he says, giving her a big hug as I sit there feeling incredibly awkward and wondering what the hell I should say. And then he looks at me and I can already feel the first stirrings of lust in my groin and he grins and says, “My favorite brunette.” And he puts his arms round me and gives me a hug too, and then he goes off to the bar to get a fresh round.

  “You don’t mind me asking Nick, do you?” Sal whispers once he’s gone. “It’s just that we were on the phone this morning and I told him I was seeing you, and when he asked if he could join us I couldn’t really say no.”

  I feel like jumping in the air with joy.

  “That’s fine,” I say. “No problem.”

  “It’s really weird,” she whispers. “I used to fancy him so much, but I don’t even think he’s good-looking anymore, that must mean I’m in love.”

  “Yup,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to say and thank God Nick chooses that moment to pull up a chair and sit down.

  “So,” says Sal. “We were just talking about Libby’s love life.”

  “Oh, yes?” says Nick, visibly perking up. “What were you saying?”

  “She was just going to fill me in on her latest man, and before you say anything I know you’ve got one, it’s written all over your face. Yup, you’re in love.”

  Oh fuck. I can’t help it. I feel a bright red, hot flush spread up from my neck until my cheeks are flaming red.

  “Now I know you’re in love,” she laughs, as I think, shut the fuck up.

  “Now this”—Nick grins—“I’ve got to hear.”

  “I’m not in love,” I say forcefully. “Definitely not.”

  “Go on,” says Nick, shoving me gently and playing completely dumb. “Tell us. You know you want to.”

  “Nick’s brilliant at sorting out people’s love lives, aren’t you, Nick?” says Sal, who, at this precise moment in time, only seems to be opening her mouth to shove her foot further in.

  Nick just nods, but he’s grinning, and I know he’s enjoying this.

  “So come on, Libby, it’s not like you to be reticent.”

  “Sal, I haven’t got anything to talk about.”

  “I don’t believe you,” says Nick, as I kick him under the table.

  “Ouch,” says Sal. “What was that for?”

  “Oh God, sorry,” I say, as Nick rocks back in his chair and starts roaring with laughter.

  “What is going on?” Sal’s now looking confused.

  “Classic,” groans Nick. “Okay. Sorry. It’s just that Libby and I . . .” And he stops.

  Go on, I think. What are we? Are we going out? Are we seeing each other? Are we sleeping together? What?

  “Libby and I . . .” he repeats, and stops again.

  “Libby and you what?” says Sal, who I’m convinced knows exactly what he’s trying to say, she’s just getting her revenge.

  “You know, we’re—” And he tilts his head and raises his eyebrows.

  “No,” she says. “You’re what?” And then she can’t help it, she starts laughing. “Oh my God,” she says. “I feel like a total idiot.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I should have said something.”

  “Yes, you bloody should have,” she says. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t know how to,” I say, but in truth I didn’t really want to.

  “So you really did get on the other night?” she says with a smile
.

  “Very well,” drawls Nick, putting his arm round me and giving me a smacker on the cheek.

  “Oh no. Don’t start getting all lovey-dovey on me.”

  “Sorry,” says Nick, drawing away. “I just can’t seem to keep my hands off her.”

  I sit there and smile. And smile. And smile.

  And the waitress comes over to tell us there’s a table waiting for us in the restaurant, so the three of us get up and walk in. Sal goes first, then me and Nick, and Nick grabs my waist as we’re walking in and nuzzles my neck, whispering, “You look gorgeous tonight,” and I smile broadly and go to sit down.

  And we turn out to have a really nice evening. I like being with Nick and Sal. I like this feeling of Nick getting on with my friends, even though Sal is as much his friend as mine, possibly even more so. And more than that I like the fact that he spends most of the evening holding my hand under the table, and that he finds everything I say absolutely fascinating, even when it’s not, and that he’s making me feel like the most special woman in here.

  We talk a bit about work, and then about people we know, and then we start sharing stories. We start with drinking stories—who can outdo the others with tales of being the most drunk, and naturally Nick wins that one. Then we do drinking and driving stories, which progresses into police stories, which forces me to reveal that once upon a time I met a guy who asked me out and then turned up at my parents’ house in full police uniform—I think I win that one.

  We move from there to dates from hell. Sal has us screaming with laughter when she tells us about the time she answered a Lonely Hearts ad, and they swapped photographs and the moment she set eyes on his 6’ 2’’ hunky frame she decided she was in love, and then they met and he was 5’ 2’’, fat and bald.

  “I think he thought I wouldn’t notice,” she splutters, as Nick and I separately think of stories to beat it.

  Nick has a superb stalking story. A statuesque blonde (she bloody would be, wouldn’t she) he picked up in a bar. He took her out a few times then decided she really wasn’t very interesting, in fact, she was probably the prototype for your standard dumb blonde model, and he dumped her. She then bombarded him with phone calls, appeared at his flat every day, wrote him letters in which she told him of their wedding day plans, and eventually turned up with a kitchen knife saying if she couldn’t have him, no one could.

  Sal and I sit there openmouthed.

  “That’s terrible!” I say. “What the hell did you do?”

  “I tried to wrestle the gun off her but I couldn’t, and eventually a policeman showed up, and she held him hostage as well. He ended up getting shot, and the house was surrounded. She was put in a mental institution.” He nods his head sadly.

  “Hang on,” I say. “You said she had a knife, not a gun.”

  “Did I? Oh shit.” He shrugs. “You’ve got to admit, it was a good story, though.”

  “You mean you made it up?” Sal’s confused.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “It did happen. It just happened to Mick in Brookside.”

  “Oh Nick,” I say, as I start laughing. “You’re hopeless.”

  And when we’ve finished our coffees and Sal starts yawning, we get the bill and leave, and I don’t bother saying anything to Nick about him staying the night because both of us know he’s going to, and when Sal asks Nick if he wants a lift to the tube he just says no, and Sal gets all embarrassed again.

  So we say goodbye and go back to my flat, and when I walk in there’s a slight moment of awkwardness when Nick notices the flashing red light on my answering machine that tells me there’ve been four messages.

  I could listen to them now, but I don’t, and before you get the wrong idea it’s not because there may be other men who are calling me, it’s because of Jules. I know what Jules is like. She’s probably left a message saying, “Where are you? I hope you’re not out shagging,” or “Hope you’re managing to walk properly after last night,” or “How’s the big love of your life going?”, and I would die, just die, if Nick heard that.

  “You’ve got messages,” he says, sitting down.

  “Yeah,” I say nonchalantly. “Probably my mum or Jules. Anyway, whoever it is it’s too late to call them. I’ll listen to them tomorrow.”

  He jumps up and starts kissing my neck. “Not calls from tall dark handsome strangers, I hope?”

  “As if!” I laugh, and then I get quite serious. “Nick,” I say, and he can tell from the tone of my voice that I have something to say, so he pulls back and says, “Uh-oh, have I been a naughty boy? I’ve done something wrong haven’t I? What have I done?”

  “No,” I laugh. “It’s just that I want you to know that while I’m sleeping with you I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else.”

  He nods seriously, taking it in. “I accept that,” he says, “and I feel the same way. I know this isn’t serious between us, but I agree that as long as we’re sleeping together we won’t be sleeping with anyone else. And the only thing I’d add to that is that if either of us is tempted, or meets someone else, we’ll talk about it, be honest with each other.”

  “Perfect,” I say, as I kiss him, but even as I say the word I’m hoping that he doesn’t ever tell me that, that if anyone meets someone else, or is, as he put it, “tempted,” it’s me. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

  How can I turn down Jules’s invitation to a dinner party, when Nick’s sitting next to me in my flat, and can hear every word? And I can tell he can hear because he’s grinning like an idiot and nodding, and it’s not that I don’t want to go, it’s that I’m really not sure how Nick will fit in with my friends, not after meeting his the other night.

  Although it has to be said that my friends would be a damn sight more welcoming than his were. Jesus, I felt like I’d been put through the mill, and I didn’t come out well, which was hardly my fault.

  It was, to put it nicely, a bloody nightmare. Not my cup of tea at all. I thought it was going to be just Nick and I, and then, when we met, he said he’d arranged to meet some friends of his and did I mind, and I lied and said that no, it was fine. And part of me was curious about his friends, because, even though I know Sal, I don’t know any of the others, and I wanted to know who they were, what they were like.

  We joined them in a pub (surprise, surbloodyprise), and from the minute we turned up I knew, from the look of the pub, that this wasn’t going to be my sort of evening, because there are pubs, and there are pubs. You don’t know what I’m talking about? Okay. I don’t like pubs, I think I already told you that, but on the rare occasions I do go to them, I like pubs that are either like country pubs in the middle of London (the Clifton springs to mind), pubs that are trying to be something else (the Lansdowne, which is more of a restaurant now), or pubs that have been completely redone and are clean, bright and smart (the Queens).

  Pubs I never set foot in are real pubs. The old-fashioned variety. Dark, dingy, smoky places with bottle-blond barmaids and dodgy customers doing deals at the bar. I could mention some names, but I wouldn’t want any contracts taken out on my life, and the kind of people who go to these pubs would know exactly how to deal with that sort of thing.

  And this was that sort of pub, except it was even darker, dingier and smokier than the nasty pubs of my imagination, and through the haze of smoke I could see a group of people at one end—all of them stopped talking when we walked in, and they waved to Nick before giving me the once-over.

  As far as I was concerned, I’d dressed down for the occasion, in my uniform of sneakers, jeans and sloppy sweater. And okay, so the sweater did come from Nicole Farhi, but so what? That’s casual for me. And yes, I was wearing jewelry, but it was silver, and so what if it came from Dinny Hall? Surely only those in the know would recognize that.

  These women may not have been in the know, but one look at me, one look at them, and you could see, instantly, we weren’t going to get on. All the people crowded round the tiny table in the pub looked like overgrown s
tudents. Big time. At least, I thought sniffily, checking them out in much the same way they were checking me out, at least my jeans are clean. Not one of the women was wearing makeup, and even though I wasn’t wearing much—well, maybe a bit, but applied so it looked as if I was hardly wearing any—I could see them linger on my lipstick, and I felt like running and hiding.

  And the clothes! God, the clothes. The women looked like Identikit socialists—dirty jeans, DMs and loose, shapeless sweaters with holes in them, and yes, I’m serious, even a couple of stains here and there. And, thinking about it, the men were wearing pretty much the same thing.

  Oh Christ, I thought, walking up, I know I’m going to hate them, but I decided I was going to be charming and polite and make them like me, because, after all, they’re Nick’s friends, and I had to make an effort.

  “This is Joanna,” said Nick, as a dirty blonde scowled at me.

  “How do you do,” I said, holding out my arm to shake her hand. She looked at her neighbor in amazement, and hesitated with a smirk on her face before finally putting an incredibly limp hand in mine and sort of moving it vaguely, then pulling away.

  “This is Pete,” and I did the same thing, except Pete didn’t bother taking my hand, he just looked up from his pint and said, “Awright?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “How are you?”

  He didn’t say anything. Just smirked.

  “Rog, Sam, Chris, Moose.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s my name,” said Moose. “Awright?”