‘Bitchy?’ Jack suggested.
‘Yes, bitchy, but I’m angry with you, Jack. Doesn’t mean I don’t love you, but I’m really, really mad at you,’ Hope admitted, not that it was breaking news. ‘But well, I won’t see Wilson again if you don’t want me to. Not that there’s anything between us. We’re sort of friends now, but friends that argue a lot.’
‘And friends that kiss?’ Jack still wasn’t sounding bothered about it. Curious and intrigued, but not as if he was about to storm round to Wilson’s loft and ask him to step outside.
‘I think he was just trying to prove a point. It didn’t mean anything to him,’ Hope said, though she wasn’t sure if that was true.
Jack seemed convinced, though. ‘Look, I’m fine with you seeing him, because I trust you. And if this works out then maybe you’ll start trusting me again, too.’
‘Anyway, this counsellor person, do you have any idea how to find one?’ Hope asked, more to change the subject than anything else, because the subject was making her feel very uncomfortable. ‘Shall we Google it?’
‘I think Max, our Editor at Large, is in therapy … he spends a lot of time in LA … I could ask him.’ Jack pinched her thigh. ‘But I’m not seeing anyone who has a framed quote from Jonathan Livingston Seagull on their office wall, agreed?’
‘Hell, yeah, it’s agreed. And if anything in their office is made from raffia, batik or bark, then we’re leaving right away.’
‘Ditto for dreamcatchers hanging up in the window, and if they have a special talking stick that you have to hold if you want to speak.’
‘And a big box of tissues in a prominent position on the coffee table that’s been made from re-purposed driftwood,’ Hope added, and this time when she caught Jack’s eye, they both grinned.
It was good to know that they were still in complete agreement about some things, even if it was their absolute dealbreakers for choosing a counsellor who might be able to save them from themselves.
THE COUNSELLOR THEY eventually found, through Jack’s colleague Max, didn’t have any touchy-feely hippie paraphernalia in her practice rooms, apart from ‘a metric arseload of pictures of her cat’, and when Hope phoned to book their first appointment, she didn’t issue forth a great stream of psychobabble, but sounded brisk and businesslike. Though that may have been more to do with the way she insisted that they pay for six sessions up front.
Their first appointment was booked for the following Friday, and they’d both agreed that Jack wouldn’t move back in unless it was all right with their counsellor. As it was, Hope wasn’t entirely sure that it was OK with her. About the only good thing to come out of living apart was that she’d got used to having the flat to herself, and the extra drawer space. Besides, she didn’t think that Jack should just shuttle from Susie to her and start counselling without any pause for reflection. After much stonewalling on Jack’s part, instead of staying with Susie for one last, shag-filled hurrah, he went back to sleeping on Otto’s sofa. He even sent Hope photos of him in residence, holding up Otto’s clock as proof that he was where he said he was.
Not believing a single word that came out of Jack’s mouth was another thing Hope had got used to, as well as spending half her waking hours imagining him and Susie wrapped around each other in coital ecstasy. And having angry confrontational rows with him in her head, where she made Jack rue the very day he was born. But she wanted to get back to that place where she missed him like mad when she got home from school and spent the next two hours waiting for the sound of his key. How just seeing his face, his smile, when he walked through the door made her forget the lousy day she’d had at work, or getting rained on at the bus stop. How she spent her day thinking about all the things she’d tell Jack while they were eating dinner, everything from how annoying Dorothy had been in a staff meeting to Blue Class’s theories on where electricity came from. Of course she missed the sex, but a relationship wasn’t so much about the sex, it was about the other stuff: the quiet moments and the jokey moments and those lovely moments when they’d cuddle up on the sofa, her feet in Jack’s lap, as they drank wine and talked all the way through the film they were meant to be watching.
That was what it was about. That was why Hope had to get over her rage and her hurt, and use all her powers of persuasion to make Jack realise that he belonged with her. Not that Lauren or Allison agreed with her.
‘You’re mad taking him back,’ they’d both said, loudly and frequently, when they’d met up for Mexican food and Margaritas bigger than their heads on Tuesday evening.
Lauren had finished her lecture on ‘Women Who Love Too Much’, and how Hope had no right to call herself a feminist if she stayed with a man who failed to treat her like the goddess she was, with her favourite Oprah-ism. ‘He cheat, he beat, he hit the street,’ she announced, even though Hope made it clear that Jack had never, ever beaten her.
Hope prayed that their counsellor wouldn’t condemn her for being a doormat, because she wasn’t. She wasn’t being passive, she was fighting for what she believed in, but if the counsellor wanted to condemn Jack a little bit for being a two-timing, lying bastard, then that would be all right.
In the end it was easier not to worry about Jack or counselling until Friday evening, especially as Blue Class were about to tackle the ten-times table and she needed to start planning the infant school’s contribution to the Winter Pageant.
Red Class were going to do a dramatic re-enactment of ‘Jingle Bells’. Yellow Class were down for the Chanukah portion of the evening; they would sing ‘The Dreidel Song’ and also form a human menorah, while the best reader in the class recited the nail-biting story of how the Maccabees only had enough oil left to keep the eternal flame in the Temple alight for one more day, though miraculously it lasted the eight days it took them to get some more consecrated oil. ‘It’s obviously a metaphor for the energy crisis. Maybe we can tie it into a moral message about how it’s better to walk your children to school, instead of blocking up the road in your gigantic, petrol-guzzling SUV,’ Elaine had blithely commented, until Hope had pointed out that the oil in question was actually olive oil.
Against her better judgement, Hope had also given in to her class’s pleas to be allowed to do a choreographed medley of Lady Gaga hits. They’d even promised to forgo their Friday afternoon Golden Time in favour of rehearsing, as well as making more of an effort to walk quietly to and from assembly, so Hope didn’t really feel as if she could say no.
Hope did want to say no, however, when she was cornered in the staffroom on Wednesday morning by Dorothy and Mr Gonzales. They were both wearing ingratiating smiles, which meant they weren’t going to tell her off because Stuart had managed to get into the girls’ toilets again, but they were going to try and make her do something that she didn’t want to do.
‘Oh my God, I’ve been so busy with the Winter Pageant,’ Hope bleated, before either of them could speak. ‘Really, really busy. And Blue Class are struggling to grasp the concept of the ten-times table. I hardly have a moment to call my own.’
‘Yes, about the Winter Pageant,’ Dorothy said, with a teeth-baring smile which always made Hope think of a shark wearing lipstick. ‘What shall we do about photographs?’
Hope shrugged. ‘Are we not letting the parents use cameras in the school hall, then?’ she asked in bemusement. ‘’Cause I have to say, if that’s the case, I think there’ll be outright mutiny, maybe even letters to the Ham & High.’
‘Official photographs,’ Mr Gonzales clarified, rocking back on his Hush Puppies. ‘What about the guy who took the pictures of Blue Class on their field trip?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Hope could see Elaine taking tremendous pleasure in the fact that this was now Hope’s problem. She even had the nerve to wipe imaginary sweat off her brow. Hope vowed to exact revenge at a later date by telling Yellow Class that Elaine particularly appreciated gifts of lavender bath salts for Christmas.
She turned her attention back to Mr Gonzales. �
��The thing is that he’s always very busy taking photos for Rolling Stone and the Observer …’
‘Perfect,’ Dorothy exclaimed. ‘Last year, Elaine got one of her daughters’ friends to take the photos, and he was more used to shooting pictures for his Facebook profile.’
‘I’m sure he’d be willing to help his local community,’ Mr Gonzales said optimistically. ‘It is Christmas, after all, and the children and their parents will be so disappointed if we don’t have some high-resolution images to put on the school website, which can be downloaded for a small fee.’
‘Which will in turn benefit the school. Budget cuts,’ Dorothy added darkly. ‘We really do need a new projector.’
‘But Wilson lives in the Borough of Camden, not Islington, so he’s not a part of our community,’ Hope countered weakly. ‘And he’s probably already booked up.’
‘So, you’ll ask him, then?’ Mr Gonzales decreed, allowing himself to give Hope’s arm a quick squeeze that in no way could be misconstrued as inappropriate touching. ‘I do like a team player.’
Even though Jack had been annoyingly blasé about Wilson being on the periphery of Hope’s life, she’d already made the decision that she couldn’t have anything more to do with him. It went against the whole spirit of being committed to couples counselling, and as for being in close proximity to Wilson? Well, it was just too confusing, with the way he’d be so sweet one minute, then destroy her entire belief-system the next. As for the kissing – Hope didn’t want to be put in a position where there might be more kissing, because Jack was the only person she really wanted to be kissing. The Wilson Kiss had to be consigned to history and only pulled out and dusted off on those days when she needed some validation.
So, there was no way she was phoning Wilson, even with a harmless business proposition. No way. Nuh-huh. Not going to happen. She’d tell Mr Gonzales and Dorothy that Wilson had had to decline their kind offer, and that was that.
Mind you, there was nothing to stop Wilson phoning her, which he did that evening when Hope was eating toast and resolutely not phoning him.
Hope nearly slid off the kitchen stool, and for a moment she contemplated letting the call roll over to voicemail, but curiosity got the better of her and she answered with a nervous, ‘Hi?’
‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ Wilson said, instead of a more cordial Hi, how are you? ‘Is that because the rumours are true and you and Jack are having another crack at domestic bliss?’
‘By rumours, do you mean that you’ve spoken to Susie?’ Hope asked. ‘So, are you and her having another crack at the let’s-be-friends thing?’
‘More like the let’s-be-friends as long as you don’t keep jawing on and crying about the bloke you were fucking when you were meant to be seeing me,’ Wilson said dryly.
Interesting. Very interesting. So Jack was following orders. That was a very good sign. ‘OK. Right. And, no, I haven’t been avoiding you,’ she lied, though she hadn’t known that she and Wilson were now meant to be in that place where they called each other up for little chats. ‘I was summoned home for the weekend, and I’ve been working late on the infant school’s contribution to the Winter Pageant, which is sucking the soul right out of me. I’ve been lumbered with Chanukah. And also a dance routine to the hits of Lady Gaga.’
Wilson laughed at that because, really, who wouldn’t, and just as Hope allowed herself to relax and wonder why she’d been so nervous about calling him, he made a tiny impatient sound. ‘So, don’t dodge the question. You and Jack, on or off?’
‘Please don’t …’
‘It’s a reasonable question.’
Hope looked up at the kitchen ceiling in supplication. How a splodge of grease had got up there, she didn’t know. And as she always talked too much when she was having a conversation with Wilson, she found herself launching into a garbled, over-share-y account of the weekend peace summit, and adding, ‘So he’s not moved back in or anything like that, but we’re going to our first counselling session on Friday evening. I mean, it’s got to be worth a shot, hasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know, has it?’
Hope decided that attack was the best form of defence, or had to be better than falling back on the old standby of holding up her thirteen years with Jack as a badge of honour that she didn’t want to tarnish. ‘Anyway, let’s not get into all that,’ she said quickly. ‘Why are you calling me? Did you want me to call you, then?’
‘I just thought that after the other week, you’d know that you could call me up if you were feeling lonely,’ Wilson said. He sounded cagey, and Hope wasn’t sure if he meant calling him up so she could share her sadness and he’d then tell her to buck up, and/or because he thought that now they’d kissed, they could move on to being fuck-buddies.
‘Well, er, I didn’t know that,’ she mumbled, and there was no reason for her face to be so red that it felt like it did the time she’d spent an entire August day on the beach at Blackpool without sunblock when she was fifteen. ‘So, why did you call?’
‘To thank you for the card I got from Blue Class last Saturday,’ Wilson said, and now he sounded more amused than anything else. ‘I have to ask, is that a colony of dragons on the front?’
‘No, it’s not!’ Hope said indignantly, confusion forgotten as she sprang to the defence of Blue Class and their artistic prowess. ‘All the kids drew a self-portrait. They don’t look anything like dragons!’
Last week during their arts and crafts afternoon, Hope had got the class to make Wilson a huge A3-sized card to say thank you for the photos. Then she’d given it to Kathryn, Mr Gonzales’ assistant, to post and had promptly forgotten about it amid all the dread of going to Whitfield and getting her head around the prospect of couples counselling.
‘My mistake. But their lettering is excellent.’
Hope beamed. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Then something occurred to her. ‘You’re totally taking the piss, aren’t you?’
‘Well, a little bit,’ Wilson agreed. ‘But I stuck it up in the studio kitchen and even Alfie dropped his sneer long enough to mutter something about how sweet it was.’
There was a little lull in the conversation, not as awkward as their lulls usually were, but Hope still felt dutybound to fill it up and, anyway, Wilson had called her so she might just as well fulfil her contractual obligations to the Borough of Islington. ‘Actually, I was going to call you. Would you believe I need to ask you a massive, humongous favour? Again?’
‘I’d believe it only too easily.’
‘Sorry, there are forces at work here that are far greater than my embarrassment at having to throw myself on your good graces.’
‘I don’t know, you throwing yourself at me sounds like it might be fun.’ Wilson was flirting with her, which gave credence to her theory that maybe he thought he could add her to his list of female friends who were up for a bit of discreet fun when they were in between partners. The thought filled Hope with panic and maybe a little bit of regret, because she still felt short of breath every time she remembered their kiss. And, despite trying not to, she’d been remembering it a lot. Still, Hope reasoned to herself, Wilson wasn’t the sort of man who flirted with abandon, so despite the fact that she was totally off-limits, he must fancy her a little bit. It was futile fancying, but her ego welcomed it.
‘If I threw myself at you, then you’d probably end up in A&E with a slipped disc,’ Hope said, prodding her muffin top, which was still spilling over the waistband of her black trousers though maybe not spilling quite as much as it had been. ‘You don’t have to say yes – I wouldn’t say yes if I were you – but I’m going to ask you anyway …’
‘Not over the phone. If you’re going to exploit my good nature again, then at least have the decency to buy me a drink and ask me to my face,’ Wilson said quickly and a little breathlessly, like he didn’t want to give Hope an opportunity to interrupt him with her protests.
Still, she was going to give it the old college try. ‘But that’s not fa—’
<
br /> ‘Eight o’clock tomorrow night at the York & Albany on Parkway. That’s my final offer,’ Wilson said. Then he had the nerve to hang up.
Hope knew that she could simply not turn up and then cobble together a story for Dorothy and Mr Gonzales that Wilson had refused to photograph the Balls Pond Primary School’s Winter Pageant during one of the busiest times of the year for absolutely no money. But then again, Wilson might want to do it, though ‘want’ was probably too strong a word. Maybe he needed pictures of grubby-faced children in home-made costumes pretending that they were trying out for Britain’s Got Talent. Stranger things had happened.
But the next evening, as Hope rushed to the gym to burn as many calories as she could in one hour, then rushed home to shower and change, she knew that the only reason she was going to meet Wilson was because she wanted to. In twenty-four hours’ time, she’d be getting ready to see the relationship counsellor to embark on a new and improved chapter in the Book of Jack and Hope, so this was her last night of freedom. Well, not freedom. It wasn’t as if Jack was the proverbial ball and chain, but there would be hard work involved. Hope was a bit vague on the details of what this hard work might involve, but she imagined a lot of intense talking about their future, and maybe they’d have to play some trust-building games, though she didn’t fancy the idea of falling backwards and hoping that Jack would catch her.
But tonight Hope didn’t have to work at all. She was going out to drink and flirt with a man who’d made no secret of the fact that he found her attractive and that if the circumstances were different, he’d probably want to have sex with her. More than once, and not just because there was nothing on telly and he’d completed all the levels on Call of Duty: Black Ops. She wasn’t hedging her bets. This wasn’t about making sure that Wilson was there as back-up in case Jack didn’t make it through even the first counselling session – it was just a little bit of light-hearted fun and she did need to ask Wilson about the Winter Pageant photographs.
Nine Uses for an Ex-Boyfriend Page 27