by Jane Moore
“Fuck me, here’s the Magna Carta,” said Tim once, pulling out a yellowed piece of paper that fragmented at his touch.
By 8:15 there was still no sign of them. She was just about to drain her glass and leave when a breathless Conor rushed in.
“God, I’m so sorry, that bloody brother of yours held me up. I was waiting forever for him to come out of the bath, and he was still starkers at eight o’clock wondering what to wear. Not a pretty sight. I’ve left him to it and he’ll meet us here as soon as he’s ready.” His face was flushed with the exertion of running.
“No worries. I was quite happy sitting here on my own,” she lied.
As he queued at the bar for their drinks, Jo noticed several women casting an appreciative eye in Conor’s direction then glancing back toward her. They probably think I’m his girlfriend, she thought, feeling a warm flush of satisfaction creep up her neck. It was a far cry from their childhood days when Jo spent most of her time trying to get away from Tim and his little chum. She always felt Conor was led astray by Tim’s excessive behavior, but it hadn’t made her like him any more at the time.
On one occasion, she had come home from school to the blissfully peaceful sanctuary of her bedroom and was indulging in one of her many fantasy conversations with a poster of Leif Garrett on her bedroom wall. It was a game she often played, where she would pretend he was asking her out and she would flirt back to him.
Halfway through telling him that maybe, just maybe, she would go to the movies with him, she heard a muffled shriek coming from inside her closet. She opened it to find Tim and Conor with each end of her school scarf stuffed in their mouths to stop themselves laughing. She smiled at the memory now, but at the time she had been mortified about it for at least two years.
“So, how’s things with you?” asked Conor when he returned to their table with two large glasses of chilled Chablis.
“Now there’s a question. Do you want the social nicety answer of ‘fine,’ or do you want the truth?”
“Oh, definitely the truth. I’ve never been one for social niceties.”
“Well, in a nutshell, the kids are missing Jeff like mad but seem to have reconciled themselves to the fact that their parents are no longer together, and I . . .” She trailed off, staring miserably into her glass.
“You what?” said Conor. His brown eyes had softened with concern.
“I’m still not sure what I think about it all, but I do know that I don’t feel as desperate as I did. That’s a start, isn’t it?” She looked at him with a quizzical smile.
Despite boring Rosie into a stupor with the dull minutiae of her shattered marriage over the past few months, Jo genuinely wanted to steer clear of the subject tonight and have a good time. Conor seemed to read her mind.
“May I recommend that we drop the subject that makes you miserable and concentrate on making sure you have a great time, if only for tonight. More drink!” He drained his glass quickly and headed off to the bar again.
Jo was already feeling slightly light-headed from the first two glasses, and knew she should start to slow down. But the alcohol was numbing her sadness, and the temporary liberation from misery was seductive. While Conor queued at the bar, Jo scanned the room. It was full of the middle-class types who would have been described as Yuppies in the eighties. A group of girls in Alice bands, chinos, and quilted car coats stood huddled in a corner, giggling and glancing at a group of men across the room dressed identically except for the Alice bands. It was obviously only a matter of time before the two groups merged for some collective braying.
It exhausted Jo just to watch them. God, she thought, how I hated being single. Sure, it had its benefits, but most of the time it was a fairly tedious state where you spent your time searching for that special someone to go on regular movie dates with. If ever she forgot how wearing singledom could sometimes be, she always had Rosie and Tim to remind her, although the latter did nothing to help himself.
“I give up,” he had groaned a few days earlier. “I just can’t seem to win with women.” He had seemed so genuinely glum that Jo had attempted to get to the bottom of his regular rebuttals by the opposite sex.
“Start at the beginning. What do you first say when you see a woman you like?” she asked earnestly.
He thought about her question for a moment. “Well, I tend to go the humorous route.”
“That’s good. Like what?”
“Um, something like, ‘Does this condom make me look fat?’ ” he said, showing no discernible trace of embarrassment.
Jo had looked at him in disbelief. “That’s not funny, Tim. It’s just offensive, particularly to someone you’ve never met.”
“So what would you suggest then?” He looked wounded.
“Even the old cliché of, ‘Haven’t we met before?’ would be better than that.”
“I tried that another time,” Tim had said disconsolately, “and she said ‘Yes, I’m the receptionist at the VD clinic,’ and walked off.”
Jo was smiling at the memory when Conor returned to the table with two more glasses of wine.
“What’s funny?” He placed one in front of her.
“Oh, I was just thinking back to a conversation I had with Tim the other day about his lack of success with women.” She noticed that Conor had pulled his chair slightly closer to hers.
“Funny you should say that,” he said, “but that reprobate brother of yours has just rung to say some girl he had a meaningful one-night stand with a few weeks ago has called him for a date tonight. He says he hopes we can manage without him.”
Jo felt a brief flutter of butterflies in her stomach, but suspected it was the wine making her feel that way.
“So?” Conor’s voice snapped her out of her drink-induced trance. “Do you think we can manage without him?” A brief smile crossed his lips.
“Oh, absolutely,” she smiled. “In fact, we’ll probably have a much nicer time without Tim flapping around. He doesn’t suffer from stress himself, he’s just a carrier.” Oh God, she thought. Now I know Tim isn’t coming I’ve suddenly started talking drivel.
“Right, another drink here, then I think we should find a restaurant and have a bite to eat. That sound good? Or do you have to get home for a certain time?”
“No, the kids are at Jeff’s so that’s great.” She smiled weakly. “Better hold the drink, thanks, till we get to the restaurant. Excuse me, I need the loo.” With a rising sense of panic, she walked across the bar. She felt dangerously out of control and needed time to gather herself.
She sat fully clothed on the closed loo seat. Was this now a date between her and Conor? The fairy of self-doubt appeared and whispered in her ear. Of course not, he’s just looking after you because your brother is so unreliable. He’ll take you out for a meal then get shot of you as soon as he possibly can.
“Look, if you’ve got something else you’d rather be doing, then please feel free. I’m really not that bothered about going to eat,” she said as she returned to the table.
“No, I want to. Unless of course it’s you who’d rather not.”
“No, no. I’d like to.”
“Good. Well, I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out,” he said, looking at her as if she were barking mad. “Perhaps we can get on with the rest of the evening now.”
It was 11:30 by the time they fell out of the Yasmin curry house and into the waiting mini-cab, with prerequisite stained seats and Magic Tree air freshener.
“Green Road first, please,” slurred Jo, “then on to Fairfields Avenue.”
“Nonsense,” mumbled Conor to the driver. “Just go to Fairfields Avenue please.”
He turned to Jo. “I’ll come and have a coffee at your place, then I’ll walk home. The fresh air will do me good. Besides, I’ve had a nice time tonight and I don’t want to say goodbye to you just yet.”
Paralyzed by a surfeit of wine, Jo found herself agreeing. The stomach butterflies were no longer fluttering, they were swarming. The last time she’d been on
the dating scene, cab journeys home had always been awkward affairs where you sat in silence, wondering what would happen when you got to your place. Would they get out too? Or would they stay in the cab and mutter the gut-wrenching statement “See you around”? Yet Conor had simply taken control of the situation and suggested coffee at her place, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She remembered a recent conversation with Tim and Rosie where her brother had informed them both that any man who says, “Fancy a coffee?” really means “Fancy a shag?” “Unless, of course, you’re sitting in Starbucks at the time,” he had added in all seriousness.
The cab pulled up outside the house and Jo stood on the pavement while Conor paid the driver. Despite the numbing effect of the alcohol, she was nervous as hell.
“I wonder if Tim’s one-night stand has just become two,” said Conor, as Jo fumbled with her front door lock. “If so, he’ll be even more unbearable to live with.”
Her jacket still on, Jo stood in the middle of the hallway, unsure what to do next. Conor’s mention of sex, even if it had been someone else’s, had momentarily thrown her. Pulling her gently by the elbow, Conor led her into the living room, helped her off with her jacket, and pointed at the sofa.
“Sit down. I’ll get us a drink, if that’s OK?” He looked at her questioningly.
Jo nodded silently. Comforted by the familiar surroundings, she had relaxed to the extent that she knew she was about to do something completely out of character. But she didn’t care.
“Tea, coffee, or something else?” said Conor, throwing his jacket onto the other sofa. He was now staring at her in a blatantly hungry fashion, a coiled spring that would ping in her direction if she gave the nod.
“Something else.” Jo’s voice was so low she was in danger of sounding like a cheesy Hollywood voiceover.
“Like what?” His voice cracked slightly. He licked his top lip with a nervous flick of his tongue.
Jo stared at him. Her body was aching for an affectionate, masculine touch, but her boring, sensible mind kept telling her to hold back. The drink-fueled body won.
“I want you,” she whispered. Immediately, her words were followed by the thought: Fuck, did I really just say that?
What she’d said hung between them, waiting for his response. She felt as if her heart was beating in the open air for all to see. She couldn’t believe she’d said such a thing. What on earth had she done?
Conor stepped forward and enveloped her in his arms. “I want you too,” he mumbled, nuzzling her neck. “I’ve always wanted you.”
Jo resisted the childish urge to say, “What? Ever since you were ten?” and tilted her head back into “take me” mode.
Lifting his head, Conor cupped her face with one hand while the fingers of the other traced the outline of her lips. She closed her eyes as his fingers entered her mouth and eased her teeth apart. His tongue flicked into her mouth and her insides went onto spin cycle.
How wonderful everything seems when you first kiss someone, she thought. In a week’s time I’d be saying, “Have a bloody shave, you’re cutting me to ribbons.” It crossed her mind to pull away, but the dull, throbbing ache between her legs killed all rational thought.
Conor’s hand was inside her blouse now, his fingers pulling her flimsy bra cup to one side. As he started to lower his head, Jo’s thoughts briefly turned to what underwear she was wearing. If only she’d known this was going to happen . . . she had on a trusty old faithful she had always referred to as her Sheffield United bra. No cups and no support.
Whether it was the thought of Conor seeing it, or just sheer common sense saying this was not an ideal situation, Jo didn’t know. But as Conor stooped to take her aroused nipple in his mouth, she pulled away and started to do up her blouse. She ended up fastening it two buttons higher than it had been all evening.
“No, we mustn’t,” she panted. “We’d only regret it in the morning.”
Conor took a step back, an expression of bemusement on his face. “I thought you wanted us to do this?”
“I did . . . I do,” stumbled Jo. “It’s just not a good idea. You’re my brother’s friend.”
“I didn’t realize there was a law against it,” said Conor, his tone measured. “Tell you what, I’ll give him a call now and tell him I don’t want to be friends any more, OK?” He took a step toward her.
“No!” Jo leapt backward as if she’d been electrocuted. The spell of alcoholic oblivion combined with lust had been broken, and they stood in the middle of the room like two awkward teenagers. The second rejection had clearly sunk in with Conor. His face had clouded.
“Look, why don’t you stay the night in the spare room? It saves you walking home, and it also means we can wake up in the morning and pretend this never happened, get our relationship back on an even keel sort of thing.”
Conor was clearly unimpressed. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” Jo’s voice was firm, but it took all her will power to stop herself from dragging him upstairs to bed and damning the consequences.
At 5 A.M. precisely, her eyes flicked open with all the panic of someone who has to catch an urgent flight and fears they’ve overslept.
She knew there was something bothering her. Indeed, it was fast asleep in her spare room.
She’d almost had rampant sex with her brother’s friend, a man who had known her children all their lives and who regularly visited her home, the home she had now sullied with their sordid, but admittedly enjoyable, little grope. How would she ever look him in the face again?
Creeping down the four stairs leading to the spare room, Jo put her head around the open door. With dark hair falling across his peaceful face and early morning stubble, she thought she’d never seen a more handsome man. He was emitting tiny snores. God, she thought, he even snores beautifully. Unlike Jeff who sounded like a wounded warthog, especially after a few bitters.
Compared to the sleeping beauty in front of her, she was a complete fright. She turned back to her room. Her mouth was gummed up from dehydration and her pillow resembled the Turin shroud where last night’s makeup had rubbed off. Remembering flashbacks of their brief passion, Jo felt the telltale ache of desire pulsating between her legs and tried to block it from her mind.
“Tea,” she muttered under her breath, the elixir to cure all ills.
As she nursed a cuppa in the kitchen, she recalled their conversation in the curry house and winced as she remembered how she’d interrogated Conor about his romantic history.
She only knew snippets of his life, gleaned from what Tim had told her over the years, but last night she’d grilled him about every last detail, until he started to get the worried look of a man expecting to get home and find Thumper boiling on the stove.
“So, have you got a girlfriend?” she’d said, before they’d even eaten the first poppadom. Standing now in the sober daylight of her kitchen, Jo couldn’t believe how forward she’d been.
“No, there’s no one special,” he’d replied, spooning a dollop of mango chutney onto his plate.
“A-ha. When men use that expression, it usually means there’s a succession of alright-for-nows floating around.”
“Nope, not in my case. I don’t see the point in seeing people regularly unless they mean something to you. In the meantime, I practice a lot on my own,” he grinned.
“But how do you know that they might eventually mean something to you . . . if you don’t see them regularly?” Jo stumbled halfway through, trying to work out if she had actually said what she’d set out to say.
“Bloody hell, I’m having a curry with Sigmund Freud.”
Over the next two hours, Jo had established that his last relationship had been with a girl he met at university. It had lasted five years and he’d not had a long-term relationship since.
“Why did you break up?”
“She went off with one of my colleagues at Offley Architecture. That’s why I quit the job, because I co
uldn’t bear to look at him every day.”
“God, I’m so sorry. I thought you were made redundant. Not that I wouldn’t be sorry about that too, of course,” she added quickly.
“Nope. That’s just what I tell people so I don’t have to give them the real story. My family and Tim are about the only people who know all the gory details.”
“Tim’s never mentioned it.”
“He wouldn’t. Despite being one of the loudest, brashest people I know, your brother is remarkably discreet when it comes to important matters.”
Jo resisted the temptation to look astonished. “Maybe it’s just the people he tells who are indiscreet,” she smiled. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Conor yawned, revealing an impressive set of old silver fillings on his back teeth. “Not really, no. I was over it long ago, so it’s not something I even think about these days. But if you want to know, I’ll tell you.”
“Sorry, it’s just that I have a morbid fascination about other people’s breakups at the moment, for obvious reasons.” She attempted a weak smile, hoping it would persuade him to spill the beans.
Conor begged a cigarette from a couple at the next table, gave out a deep where-do-I-start sigh and leaned back in his chair, a cornered man.
“Well, Sally—that’s her name, by the way—was on the same course as me at London University. We didn’t get together until the final year, because we weren’t sure whether it would last and we didn’t want to spoil our friendship. But in the end, we couldn’t help ourselves and I did fall in love with her. As far as I was concerned, she was the woman I was going to marry, and I thought she felt the same way. When I got the job at Offley’s, I bought the house and she moved in with me. It was great for a couple of years, then I started to notice her behavior toward me was changing. So I confronted her and—”
“Hang on, whoa,” Jo interrupted. “How did her behavior change?” It always infuriated her how dreadful men were at relaying the finer detail of any situation. She and Rosie could make the most mundane anecdote stretch for hours.
