The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  ‘That’s because you dumped the brains of the operation on holiday,’ she says, smiling as she runs her finger down his nose.

  He shakes his head in shame. ‘Kate – honestly, what happened in France, I still feel dreadful.’

  ‘Join the club,’ she says, laughing. ‘Why don’t you warm up those tortillas? I’m famished.’

  He bounds over to the hob and she stands for a moment gazing at his back, at the place where the collar of his white T-shirt meets his neck, that tender stretch of skin. She looks at his broad shoulders, his strong arms, his elegant fingers. She misses being held by his body; she desperately misses holding his hand. She wants to go over and scratch his back the way he loves, but instead she turns and wanders to the mantelpiece, where he keeps his upcoming invitations. There’s a photo of his friends Rob and Tasha, though that’s not immediately clear because they’re wearing pirate hats and fake beards. Kate picks up the card – it’s an invite to a Hot-Tub Pulled-Pork Pirate Party for Rob’s birthday. She imagines a hot tub with shreds of pork floating on the surface. It’s very Rob and Tasha, trying so desperately to be hip. Mind you, those guys are ten years younger than Nick; they do things Kate’s either done already or never wanted to do in the first place. Either way, it’s none of her business. ‘You going to this?’ she says, trying to strip the judgement from her voice.

  ‘To what?’ he says, turning to look. ‘Oh. No. I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Those two broke up.’

  ‘What? When did that happen?’

  ‘Just the other day . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Rob kind of slept with someone else, about a month ago.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  Nick shrugs with discomfort. ‘He went to The Hawley Arms when Tasha was away on a hen do, picked up some random—’

  ‘God, what a creep. How did Tasha find out?’ says Kate, suddenly feeling deeply sorry for her.

  ‘He kind of caught something off this girl.’

  ‘Seriously? That is disgusting, that’s beyond disrespectful. I always thought Rob was a bit of a dick, but what a total wanker.’

  Nick shrugs. ‘He’s generally a good bloke. He did say it was only a minor STD . . .’

  ‘A minor STD? Like that makes a difference? Give the guy a medal because it wasn’t super-strain gonorrhoea?’

  ‘He was pretty drunk, apparently.’

  ‘Nick, you can’t actually be defending him? He’s a pig.’

  ‘Babe, I’m not defending him. He feels really bad.’

  ‘I bet Tasha feels worse. Bloody hell, what a major bellend, with a minor STD . . .’ She shakes her head in disgust. ‘I guess you won’t be needing this, then?’ She takes the invite and dumps it in the recycling bin as Nick lays two plates down on the kitchen counter.

  ‘I find the whole thing crazy,’ says Nick. ‘I was talking to my therapist about it this week – how other people seem to have such dramatic break-ups.’

  Kate looks at him in disbelief. ‘Other people? We had a pretty dramatic break-up. Do you actually talk to your therapist about me?’

  ‘You’re the reason I see him!’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she says, laughing.

  ‘Kate – I’m trying to make sense of all of this. I don’t even consider what happened between us a break-up. I know I have issues, but my life is much less fun without you. I miss you every day.’

  ‘You know what? I actually don’t want to talk about this, because this middle-ground stuff will do my head in. We’ve agreed to be friends until you’re certain what you want.’

  ‘OK, yep, sure,’ he says, nodding, then setting about the precision construction of his burrito. ‘Shall I build yours?’ Nick builds a better burrito than anyone; Kate’s attempts always end up in a giant, wet, leaky ball.

  Every few moments as they’re eating he turns to her and smiles contentedly, as if they’re right back to where they should be. Sitting close on their familiar kitchen stools, in this space they’ve inhabited so care-freely, Kate’s muscle memory is in overdrive. She has to restrain herself from reaching over to touch his arm or ruffle his hair.

  Final bite taken, she reaches for the kitchen roll and wipes the last of the sour cream off her fingers. ‘That was delicious, thank you.’

  ‘Oh, speaking of delicious, I’ve booked Le Montrachet.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For dinner, for your fortieth. I know you’ve always wanted to go, and you have to book months in advance, so I went down and booked in person.’

  Wow, Kate really should let Nick muck her about more often if it means he’s going to up his game like this. ‘Thank you, Nick, that sounds great, it’s just that I haven’t really thought about what I want to do that weekend. I’m still thirty-something for a couple more months.’

  ‘It’s a special birthday. We can always cancel nearer the time, but this way at least we have an option. Anyway, what shall we do now? Do you fancy watching some Modern Family?’

  ‘No,’ she says, catching a glimpse of Triluminos in the corner. Definitely no TV. She knows she sounds prickly, but she can’t be here without her guard up to some degree.

  ‘Scrabble?’

  ‘Sure,’ she says, her voice softening.

  He clears the plates then beckons her to follow him through to the spare room where the Scrabble set is.

  ‘You’ve had a tidy-up,’ says Kate, heading over to the bookshelves to check whether her books are still there.

  ‘Yours are on the middle two shelves,’ he says, flashing her a tender look. ‘I’ve refiled them alphabetically for you.’

  Kate pauses to decode this. They haven’t even begun to discuss whether Kate will be moving in, and yet Nick’s acting like he has no doubt about their future, the books, the restaurant reservation . . . Kate follows Nick back out to the living room, trying hard to ignore the hope that’s now throbbing aggressively in her like a tooth infection.

  They sit together on the sofa and Nick takes the tile bag from the cardboard box and shakes it in the air like a single maraca. Kate never used to like Scrabble but Nick adores it and his enthusiasm is contagious. The fact that Nick had geeky hobbies was one of the reasons she’d always felt safe with him; Nick would never do a Rob. But as she picks her tiles from the Scrabble bag, she realises that Nick’s squareness has not proved he is a stable bet for a boyfriend; it seems geeky hobbies can coexist with emotional unreliability.

  Inside the Scrabble box is a long score sheet of their historic games. Nick flicks the pad over and narrows his eyes. ‘Ready to lose again, babe?’ he says, breaking into his own version of the Bee Gees.

  Thanks to his crossword obsession Nick has an amazing knowledge of obscure words, peculiar plurals, words beginning with Q that are not followed by U. Kate has been watching and learning, and on a good day she can almost beat him, but not quite.

  Nick scrutinises his tile selection, rearranging the order repeatedly before flashing her a grin. Kate frowns at her tiles – four Ss, three vowels. By the time she looks up, Nick has already set down his tiles with an expression of delight.

  ‘Lariat?’ says Kate in despair. ‘Is that another made-up Nick word?’

  ‘It’s a South American rope,’ he says, nimbly totting up his score.

  She looks at her own tiles: S, S, S, S, E, E, I – this just isn’t her day. She places an I in front of his T.

  ‘It? That’s your best shot?’ He laughs. ‘You sure you don’t want to make this a cash game?’

  ‘One day I’ll be better than you, Nick.’

  ‘You sure will – those guys at Google are working on eternal life as we speak.’ He reaches out to rub her cheek. It’s only his finger and thumb touching her face but their eyes lock and she forces her head down to her tiles as her heart starts thumping in overdrive.

  She studies Nick studying his new tiles, the familiar creases in his forehead as he works out the best way to
destroy her. ‘Come on, Nick,’ she says, ostentatiously looking at her watch. ‘I’m not getting any younger.’

  ‘Yes!’ he says. ‘D-I-P-S-H, dipshit.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ mutters Kate, who’s forgotten to pick up a new tile after using her I. Marvellous, another vowel – though hang on just one minute . . . U, E, E, S, S, S, S. Her fist clenches in victory as she lays her letters around his L. ‘Useless! Or not, as the case may be.’

  ‘Good work,’ he says, high-fiving her. ‘Low score, but still, a clean start, right?’

  ‘A clean start,’ she mutters, as she picks more letters.

  Nick shifts ever so slightly on the sofa, moving an inch closer so that their knees are gently touching. Is she imagining it or is he deliberately pressing his knee against hers? She looks at him and he smiles back. She feels a dull throb of longing.

  She turns her attention back to her tiles. ‘Useless . . . dipshit . . . If you lend me an O, I could make asshole . . . It’s Ouija Scrabble – all words lead to Nick in France,’ she says, laughing at her own bitchiness, but she can’t contain herself.

  ‘Ouch. I guess I deserve that,’ says Nick, squinting at his tiles, then nodding as he lays more letters down.

  ‘Tache?’ says Kate. ‘You’re not allowed slang.’

  ‘Tache is also an archaic word for a buckle or clasp, but feel free to challenge if you’re happy to lose points,’ he says, rubbing her knee and giving it a little squeeze.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, brushing him off. ‘I’m over it already. I’ve moved on.’ She lays down H-E-A-R in front of it.

  ‘Hear-tache?’ he says in confusion.

  ‘Heartache, dummy! I thought you were the bright one,’ she says with a jubilant whoop.

  ‘Amazing!’ He laughs and instinctively reaches for her, and instinctively she leans in to him, and they kiss, then pause as they simultaneously remember they’re pretending they’re just friends – and then they kiss again and it is a phenomenal kiss, the sort of kiss you lose yourself in, so much so that it takes Kate minutes before she is willing to pull herself away.

  ‘Kate,’ says Nick, running his fingers through her hair. ‘We’re so right together. This is so right.’

  ‘We always were, Nick . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry about what happened.’ He shakes his head and there is a look of confusion on his face she recognises from the coffee shop. ‘I hate that I’ve hurt you.’

  She nods and swallows the surge of sadness and happiness that have collided in her throat. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her again. She can’t be stand-offish or feign indifference because right here on this sofa, playing Scrabble and kissing Nick Sullivan, is exactly where she wants to be. It seems clear, from the fact he won’t take his mouth from hers, that he misses her, wants her, loves her. That’s what it means when a body does this.

  She slowly pulls away once more, then stands up, staggering slightly from the head rush. ‘Nick, I’m going to go home,’ she says, gathering her coat and bag as she heads for the door.

  It would be the easiest thing in the world to follow this man through to his bedroom, to lie down on that bed she’s lain on a hundred times, to put their bodies back together again to mend her broken heart. But she’s been patient beyond what she ever thought herself capable of. If she has to wait just a little longer to feel convinced that France was just an unfortunate wobble, it’ll be worth it. This man is her future. She is sure of it.

  PART THREE

  Patience is bitter but its fruit is sweet.

  Sir John Chardin, Travels in Persia 1673–1677

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ‘IT’S CALLED GHOSTING, Mrs Finn, and you can add it to your list of things you don’t ever need to know about, alongside Snapchatting your bottom, Instagramming your avocado toast and every single one of the Kardashians.’

  ‘Are you sure he didn’t try to contact you another way?’ says Cecily, scraping the last mouthful of chocolate soufflé from the ramekin Kate has brought her, and giving a small contented sigh.

  ‘I sent a final text this morning, checking if he’s OK – you never know, people do get hit by buses. I could see he started to reply from the dots on the screen, and then he blocked me!’

  ‘I don’t understand what that means.’

  ‘It means he let me cook him an elaborate picnic, then not only did he not show, but he has now evaporated.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Cecily, her face falling in disappointment.

  ‘This is what I keep telling you: London is full of horrifically ill-mannered, incomprehensible men, which is why when you meet a half-decent one with solid personal hygiene you hold on for dear life.’

  ‘Why do they call it ghosting?’

  ‘Because people disappear into thin air.’

  ‘Ghosts don’t disappear, they stick around to haunt you. They should think of a better word. By the way, the peppers were good – though you do always under-season.’

  ‘Once, Mrs Finn, it was one toastie . . .’

  ‘I must admit I’m impressed you didn’t take that feast straight round to Amoeba’s.’

  Kate blushes. ‘Well, if I had done, we could have traced that back to you.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘If you hadn’t insisted I go on a date with some idiot in the first place, then I wouldn’t have been stood up – then felt rejected and irritable, which only makes me more vulnerable to Nick.’

  ‘Why on earth would you let one man’s bad manners influence your opinion of yourself?’

  ‘I know you said go on that date as a way to boost my confidence, but it had the reverse effect. Anyway, it’s made me realise how reliable Nick is. Was that your plan all along?’

  ‘Good grief, since when do two wrongs make a right? Besides, if you could muster the enthusiasm to make me a reasonable chocolate soufflé, you can’t be that upset.’

  There’s clearly no point updating Cecily on how the rest of yesterday panned out. Kate turns to gaze out of the window. ‘Mrs Finn, it’s almost like summer out there. Could I persuade you to drink this tea in the garden? You’d only need a light cardy.’

  Cecily shakes her head. ‘Rappapot’s out there with the grandson. The other day she tried to cheat me in the film quiz. Burbridge’s hearing aid wasn’t set correctly and Rappapot took advantage, shouting the wrong answers to her, thinking I’d overhear and try to copy them – incontinent imbecile – as if I couldn’t name all five Marx brothers. I met two of them myself in Los Angeles!’

  ‘The garden’s big enough for you and her.’

  ‘And has she mentioned she grew up in Keen-yah? Can’t pronounce it Kenya like a normal person, and that she had a mansion full of “obedient” servants and a cook and a driver and a this and a that. No wonder her daughter emigrated to New Zealand, she’d have moved to the moon.’

  ‘We could sit in a quiet corner?’

  ‘She loves this prison, captive audience, no one can escape her.’

  ‘Just for ten minutes? You never leave this room, some fresh air would do you good.’

  ‘No,’ she says, pointing sternly at the teapot.

  ‘Anyway, Mrs Finn, it would never have worked out with Martin,’ says Kate, pouring more tea. ‘I can’t date a man who doesn’t like food.’

  ‘The next one won’t be so particular.’

  ‘Nick loves food. He makes these phenomenal burritos . . .’

  ‘Did you find the peppers easily?’ says Cecily sharply.

  ‘The peppers?’

  ‘The pimento for the picnic?’

  ‘Actually, I went to this amazing greengrocer down on Parkway to get them.’

  ‘Parkway?’ says Cecily, her eyes widening in delight. ‘In Camden Town?’

  ‘Do you mind if I open the window? It really is too warm in here,’ says Kate, feeling the sweat under her arms.

  ‘Keep it shut. Do you ever go dancing?’

  ‘Me? Sometimes, why?’

  ‘I
used to love dancing. We’d go to tea dances down on Parkway, they were the highlight of my week. If you were lucky enough to find a partner who’d take you to Lyons Corner House afterwards for an egg mayonnaise sandwich, you were queen for a day,’ says Cecily, clasping her hands to her bosom.

  ‘Did you go dancing often?’

  ‘Whenever possible. I was so lonely back then, my nights and weekends were a frantic hunt for pleasure.’

  ‘Weekends are the worst,’ says Kate.

  ‘I would not relive those years again for anything. I felt so desperate, marriage seemed the only refuge from my tedious job and my own sense of failure,’ says Cecily, shaking her head in pity for her younger self.

  Kate shifts uncomfortably in her chair; it’s all sounding a little too familiar. ‘So did you give up teaching after you married Samuel?’

  Cecily nods. ‘Not because Samuel was some silly chauvinist – he wanted me to do whatever made me happy – but because his job took us to the continent.’

  ‘Will you please tell me how you met? Was it romantic, like your parents’ story?’

  ‘Samuel and I? It wasn’t my doing, it was another of Papa’s grand plans. Papa had gone to visit a friend and Samuel Finn happened to be there. He’d recently arrived from Poland, from a decent family. He was single and intelligent, with good teeth. Papa immediately invited him to tea, threatening to throw me out if I failed to impress. He said, “This is your last chance” – and I thought, well, if that’s the case, then I’d better take it.’

  ‘Oh. That doesn’t sound romantic at all.’

  ‘Oh, as soon as I saw Samuel I hoped he’d marry me,’ says Cecily, her eyes lighting up. ‘He was six foot three, with wavy black hair, huge brown eyes and a serious expression that would break into the most magnificent smile at the smallest delight. Papa did most of the talking that day, I think Samuel was more taken with him than me – still, he invited me out for the following week. Papa said I mustn’t let him buy me more than a Bath bun lest he think me extravagant and unsuitable for a wife.’

  Kate laughs; she never holds back on a date in a restaurant – maybe that’s where she’s been going wrong.