Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

Nick went off to the bar to get a fresh round of drinks, and I noticed, with more than a hint of distaste, that all the women were drinking pints, but that didn’t mean I had to. No fucking way.

  So I stood there awkwardly, waiting for one of the men to offer me a stool, but no one did, they just carried on talking about Tony Blair and “New Labour bastards,” and I stood like an idiot, wishing I were anywhere else but here.

  And eventually I went to the table next to them and asked if I could take a stool, and they nodded, so I perched next to Joanna and tried to be friendly.

  “I love your sweater,” I lied, thinking that the best way of making friends is to offer so many compliments they can’t possibly dislike you. “Where did you get it?”

  “Camden Lock,” she said, before turning away in disgust.

  “So you’re Libby,” said Rog, as I breathed a sigh of relief that someone was actually going to talk to me, to be nice to me. “We’ve ‘eard a lot about you.”

  “Oh,” I said, smiling politely. “Nice things, I hope?”

  He shrugged.

  “What do you do, Rog?” I ventured, careful to fit his name in the sentence because I read somewhere that when you use people’s names a lot it always makes them warm to you.

  He looked at me for a few seconds, then shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t quite know what to say next. “Well,” I carried on, “what would you like to do?”

  He shrugged again. “Nothing.”

  “You’re a bloody liar,” said Joanna, and she turned to me. “He’s an artist.”

  “Really?” I said. “What do you paint?”

  “Abstract.” Jesus, this is a losing battle.

  “You work in PR, don’t you?” said Chris, not the male variety, the female variety.

  I nodded gratefully.

  “Don’t you think it’s a complete waste of time?” she asked aggressively. “I mean, you’re not exactly helping anyone, are you, just pandering to these stupid fucking celebrities.”

  “Actually, I quite enjoy it.” I bristled. “Why, what do you do?”

  “I work for Greenpeace,” she said. “I couldn’t stand a job like yours. At least with mine I know I’m making a difference to the world.”

  “Why, have you been out rescuing whales?” I asked innocently.

  She huffed. “Not personally, but I have organized it.”

  There was a silence as everyone looked into their drinks, but I’m sure I saw Chris look at Pete and raise her eyebrows, and I sat there miserably knowing that look was about me.

  “Do you live locally?” said Joanna, the only one in the crowd who seemed to be okay. Note that I wouldn’t go as far as saying nice, just okay.

  I shook my head. “I live in Ladbroke Grove.”

  “Really?” she said. “I’ve got friends there. They’ve got this fantastic Housing Association flat, huge. Do you rent or what?”

  “No, I bought it,” I said proudly.

  “Oh,” she said. “How did you afford that?”

  “I saved for ages for the down payment,” I lied, knowing that if I told the truth, that my parents had helped me, they’d probably all start hissing and spitting.

  “You must be loaded,” she said, and the others all looked at me, waiting to hear what I was going to say.

  “Hardly.” I tried to laugh. “I just try to be careful with money.”

  “I wish I had enough money to be careful with,” she said.

  “Do you work?”

  “Nah.” She shook her head. “I’m on the dole.”

  And I was stuck, because I wasn’t going to make the same mistake of asking what she would be doing if she wasn’t on the dole.

  “So,” said Moose finally. “We were talking about New Labour. What do you reckon about them?”

  “I think they’re all a bunch of untrustworthy bastards,” I said firmly.

  “Do you?” said Moose. “Even Blair?”

  Oh shit. What do I say now? I think Tony Blair’s pretty damn nice, but somehow I suspected that wasn’t the thing to say.

  “Especially Blair,” I said, and thank God, they started nodding, and I felt like I’d passed some sort of test. Except unfortunately I didn’t pass it for very long, and I sat there quietly as they all started talking politics, praying they weren’t going to ask me for another opinion.

  Nick came back, put his arm round me and whispered, “Sorry, I had to wait for ages at the bar. Are you okay?”

  What was I going to say? That I found his friends disgusting? That they were rude and nasty? That I’d rather be sitting at home watching paint dry than sitting in this revolting pub with these revolting people? I didn’t have the nerve to say anything, so I just nodded, and Nick thought I was okay, and so we ended up staying, and I didn’t say another word all night, which was really all right, because everyone ignored me anyway. Nick kept trying to bring me into the conversation, but it was too political for me anyway, so I sat there wondering what the fuck I was doing there.

  And every time Nick asked me if I was okay, I said yes, even though I quite obviously wasn’t because I was so quiet. That’s the thing, you see. People think I’m hugely confident because when I’m with people I know, or people I feel comfortable with, I’m absolutely fine, but put me in a crowd of people like this, people who are hostile and unfriendly, and I just clam up.

  Eventually, at around ten o’clock, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Nick,” I whispered. “I’ve got a bit of a headache. Do you mind if we go?” Nick looked at me in surprise, because he’d been taking center stage and was obviously having a great time.

  “Sure,” he said. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I thought it might go away,” I lied. I stood up. “Nice to meet you all,” I lied again, and as soon as we were outside I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  “You hated them, didn’t you?” said Nick.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I’m sure they’re really nice people, but they weren’t exactly friendly to me, and I didn’t feel comfortable at all.”

  “God, I’m sorry, Libby,” he said, and put his arms around me. “I’m so stupid. I just kind of assume that everyone I like will get on, and I know they can be a bit funny with strangers, but I didn’t expect them to be that bad. We should have left ages ago.”

  “Don’t worry.” I snuggled into his shoulder as we walked off down the road. “Can we stay at mine tonight?”

  Nick nodded, and I didn’t feel the need to explain that after feeling so bloody insecure all evening I needed to be at home, I needed to be surrounded by my things, in my bed, feeling safe and comfortable and secure.

  And that’s when Jules phones.

  “Hey, babe,” she says. “Jamie and I are having people over for dinner next week, so do you want to bring the infamous Nick?”

  Oh God. Nick with a bunch of barristers would be as awkward as me with a bunch of hard-line socialists. I’m about to say no, but Nick starts nodding vigorously because Jules is speaking so loud he can hear every word.

  “He’s sitting next to me,” I warn. “And he’s nodding, so I guess that’s a yes.”

  “Wednesday night, eight-thirty, casual.”

  “Okay,” I say, as Nick beams, thrilled at the chance of meeting my friends.

  “So I finally get to meet Jules,” he says, when I’ve put down the phone. “What’s she like? What’s Jamie like? Who are their friends?”

  And I start laughing because he always makes me laugh, and then he starts tickling me, the bastard, and I scream for him to stop even though by this time I’m more or less hysterical with laughter, and luckily he does stop because a few more seconds and I’d have wet myself, and then he gets all soppy and serious and we start kissing, and I’ve never made love on a sofa before but it’s lovely, and I forgive him for such a shitty evening and for having such shitty friends. In fact, right now, I think I’d forgive him pretty much anything.

  Casual, Ju
les said, which could mean anything, but I know what it doesn’t mean is jeans and sneakers. Nick’s never seen me dressed up and I don’t know what he’ll think, and, although I know I look good in smarter clothes, I don’t want him to think that we come from two different worlds, therefore what would be the point in carrying on. Even though it’s true.

  I still know there’s no future in this, but, and I feel sick admitting it, I also know that I’m starting to think about him a hell of a lot more than I used to, and I also know that I’m starting to look forward to seeing him a hell of a lot more than I used to, and I know, or at least, I think, that there’s a very strong possibility that I may be slightly out of my depth here.

  But I’m an adult, I can handle this, and so what if I’m starting to like him a little bit more than I’d planned, what does that mean? That I should end it because I like him? No. Exactly. I’ll just carry on and maybe this is just a phase, maybe in a little while I’ll go back to how I was—cool, calm, collected, free.

  And I know I hated his friends, but I’m nervous as shit of him meeting mine because I so badly want him to like them, want them to like him. I suppose what I really want is approval all round, but then how could they not like him, when he’s so natural, and funny, and sweet? Oh God. We’ll just have to see.

  So here I am, in my bedroom, and I’ve arranged to pick Nick up at the tube station, and there are clothes everywhere, and bearing in mind I’ve completely changed my look since meeting Nick, I don’t know what goes with what anymore, and though I want to look smart-ish, I don’t want to look middle-aged smart, if you know what I mean. I want to look smart, cool and trendy, and finally I think I’ve got it.

  A camel-colored print dress, hip-hugging, almost see-through, with very high Prada strappy sandals, and I’m not sure about the shoes, they might be a bit over the top, but they make me feel beautiful and the one thing I need tonight more than anything else is a shot of confidence.

  I put my makeup on carefully, only a tiny bit, just to accentuate my eyes, my lips, and when I’m ready I stand back, and I know it sounds bigheaded, but God, I look amazing, I’d forgotten I could look like this, and never mind the fact that I can hardly walk in these bloody shoes, I look beautiful.

  “Goodbye, Liam,” I shout triumphantly as I pick up my bag and run out of the flat, “hello, Patsy,” and I climb into the car to go and pick up Nick.

  And bless him, he’s made an effort. He’s not wearing his usual uniform of jeans and sneakers, he’s wearing chinos and brown lace-up shoes and a soft blue shirt that completely brings out the color of his eyes, and he looks gorgeous, and God, what a difference clothes can make, because I suddenly fancy him more than ever before.

  “You look amazing,” I say, as soon as he gets in. “Where are all these clothes from?” And I practically fall out of the car with shock when I notice that not only is his shirt beautiful, it’s got a very familiar polo player on the left-hand side.

  “That’s not Ralph Lauren!” I say, when I’ve finally recovered, and I know that sounds like a stupid question because it’s quite obviously the Ralph Lauren symbol, but this must be a fake if Nick’s wearing it.

  “Yes,” he says, “it is. So?”

  “So where did you get it?”

  “My mother bought me all these clothes last year, but I never wear them.”

  “I know,” I laugh. “I’ve never seen you in them, but, Nick, you look gorgeous.”

  He also looks very uncomfortable. Jesus, I would marry Nick if he looked like this all the time. Well, no, I probably wouldn’t. Don’t get too excited, it’s just a figure of speech.

  And then he looks at me, and does a very slow and very sexy wolf whistle.

  “Christ,” he says, taking in the outfit. “You look unbelievable.”

  “Unbelievable good or unbelievable bad?”

  “Unbelievable sexy,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief, as my head threatens to swell so much it won’t fit in the car. “Why don’t we not go, and I’ll take you home and ravish you instead.”

  And I laugh, but as I look at him I see he half means it.

  “You’re nervous!” I’m amazed.

  “No, I’m not,” he says. A little too quickly.

  “You are. Nick, why are you nervous?”

  “I’m not.” And then he pauses. “Okay. Maybe a bit.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the first time I’ll be meeting your friends, and Jules is your best friend, and I want to make a good impression.”

  He is so sweet.

  “You are so sweet.”

  “Don’t say I’m sweet,” he growls. “I hate that.”

  “Sorry,” I say, and reach over and give him a kiss. “But you are.”

  “I thought you said you were having people over for dinner,” I say, pulling Jules aside and whispering to her furiously. “You didn’t tell me you were having a bloody party.”

  “You know how it is,” she laughs. “It was meant to be six of us, and then we invited a couple more, and then someone else phoned and asked if they could bring someone, so before we knew it there were sixteen people. Anyway, what’s the problem?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter, and there isn’t really a problem, I just wasn’t prepared for this, and somehow I thought it would be easier to introduce Nick at a dinner party, more intimate, less pressure, but I suppose, thinking about it, perhaps this is better.

  “So where is he?” she says, looking around the room.

  “Nick!” I call out to where Nick’s already chatting to Jamie. “Come and meet Jules.”

  Jamie’s smiling, so I assume whatever it is they were talking about went well, and he comes over with Nick to kiss me hello.

  “Jules, Nick. Nick, Jules.” Nick holds his hand out very formally, and I have to stifle a laugh because this is not Nick’s way at all, but Jules being Jules just laughs and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome to our party,” she says. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

  “And you,” says Nick, relaxing. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Not half as much,” she says, winking at me, “as I’ve heard about you.”

  “I’ve heard about Tom,” he says, scooping up the gray Persian kitten who’s winding his way around Nick’s legs. “Hello,” he says to Tom, stroking him under the chin as he starts purring like an engine. “You’re gorgeous, aren’t you?”

  “Well, Nick,” says Jules, “you’re in. Any man who likes cats is all right by me.”

  “I’ve got two at home with my parents,” he says. “I miss them desperately but it wouldn’t be fair to have them here, I haven’t got a garden.”

  I look at Nick in surprise, because he never struck me as a cat sort of bloke, but I think what surprises me most is how he keeps surprising me. First the clothes that his mother bought him, and now the cats. And what’s more, how come his mother has such good taste? On the rare occasions my mother buys me clothes—generally when they’ve been on holiday—they’re disgusting. Huge voluminous T-shirts saying things like, “My mum went to Majorca and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.” I’ve got about ten of them shoved away in a cupboard somewhere. I always mean to sleep in them, but I can’t seem to face looking at the bloody things, never mind putting them on. But Ralph Lauren! Jesus. My mum wouldn’t know Ralph Lauren if he came up and personally introduced himself.

  “Libby says you’re a writer,” says Jamie.

  Nick nods. “But it doesn’t seem to be getting me anywhere. Unfortunately.”

  “It’s got to be a novel, then.”

  “Yup.”

  “I’ve always wanted to write a novel,” says Jamie. “I find it amazing that you have the discipline to sit down and write every day.”

  “I know, everyone does, but it’s getting to the stage where I might have to start looking for other work. Obviously this book is my first love, but I just don’t know how much longer I can keep sending out letters only to be rejected.”

  “So wha
t sort of work would you look for?” asks Jules, as my eyes light up, because this is the first time he’s ever mentioned it.

  “Maybe TV work, scriptwriting, something like that.”

  “You ought to meet Charles,” she says, turning to Jamie. “Isn’t he a drama producer for one of the TV companies?”

  Jamie nods. “He’s the boyfriend of a friend of ours, Mara. They should be here soon, so I’ll introduce you.”

  “So who else is coming?” I ask.

  Jules reels off a list of names, and sure enough, they’re all couples, and I thank God that this time I didn’t have to turn down the invitation because I didn’t want to come on my own.

  “Oh, and there’s a surprise for you.”

  “For me?” I love surprises, even though I pretend to hate them.

  “Yup.” She checks her watch. “In fact,” she says, going to the door to answer the doorbell that’s just rung, “this could be it. Come with me.” I follow her out of the room, and the minute we’re in the hallway she grabs me and whispers, “He’s gorgeous!”

  “I know,” I whisper back.

  “But no, I mean he’s really gorgeous. So handsome! And sweet!”

  “I know.” I grin happily, as the doorbell rings again.

  “All right, all right,” she grumbles, running down to the front door. “Coming!”

  It’s Ginny and Richard, a couple I’ve met before who seem very nice, but he’s a bit intimidating in that barrister, legal-ish sort of way, although they’ve always been charming.

  I stand back as they kiss Jules hello, then Richard gives me a big smile and reaches down to kiss the air on either side of my cheeks. “Libby!” he exclaims. “How lovely to see you again!”

  Ginny does the same thing, then all four of us move into the living room, as Jamie says hello, then goes off to get drinks.

  “Nick!” says Richard. “I don’t believe it!” and I stand openmouthed as Richard gives Nick a manly hug and clasps his hand in both of his. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I’m here with Libby,” says Nick.

  “What? You and Libby?”

  He nods.

  “I don’t believe it.” Richard turns to me. “I haven’t seen Nick in years. We were at school together.”