Playing Away

by Adele Parks

  "How old do I look? Do I look thirty? I'm not thirty yet you know. I don't feel thirty."

  "You certainly don't act it," I assure.

  "Anyway, you're only as old as . . ."

  "The woman you feel."

  "Ha ha, the old ones are the best." He giggles, largely to himself.

  "My point exactly."

  "Your point. I thought we were talking about my point."

  "Whey hey."

  "She has fabulous tits and such a nice bum."

  "She will have, won't she? Not only is she just seventeen but she's Italian." I'm consoled by the fact that they only defy gravity until they marry and then everything hits the pavement. To ensure that he realizes I'm not in the slightest bit jealous or disconcerted, I agree that there is something about youth that is a distinct and undeniable turn-on.

  "Maybe it's the ready willingness, the firm expectant loins or the fact that they are always curious and then grateful. Or maybe it's because they don't expect any conversation."

  He doesn't respond but falls silent. I'm irritated and stare at the cracks in the pavement. They don't swallow me up.

  "Don't be like that. Look, the reason I called is that I have some good news, my girlfriend, Andrea, is away next week. I can see you any night you want, every night if you like."

  Girlfriend!

  Girlfriend!!

  "Girlfriend?"

  "What? I can't hear you. This is so frustrating, the line keeps breaking up."

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  "I didn't realize you had a girlfriend," I stutter.

  "Surely you're not jealous, Greenie? You're the married

  „„„ " one.

  I'm silent.

  "You are jealous. Oh, Connie, how touching."

  He's rarely called me Connie. I dissolve.

  "I thought you'd be pleased. This way I'll never be the type of bloke that turns up on your doorstep declaring undying love for you, making a nuisance of myself. You must be relieved."

  "Yes." No.

  "Are you jealous?" He sounds thrilled.

  "No." Yes.

  "Look, I've got to go, I'll call you later about meeting up next week. I need to know your beautiful body again."

  "Are you jealous of Luke?" The question pours out frantically.

  "Very."

  He hangs up.

  I drag myself back into the reception, I snail into the lift and crawl to my desk. He has a girlfriend.

  "What's up?" asks Sam. "You look as though you've bought the winning lottery ticket, left it in your jeans pocket and then put them through the wash."

  I cradle my head in my hands.

  "I've just heard that John Harding has a girlfriend," I hiss across the open pigpen. Six people pick up pens and pretend they are not listening to me.

  "The cheek of him, the way he flirted with you in Paris."

  Sam, as a very loyal friend, has a convenient memory. She has downgraded my Paris indiscretion to him flirting with me. Thank God she doesn't know how things really stand, or more pertinently, lie.

  "The cheek of him!" she says again and angrily hits her delete key.

  "I wonder what she's like?"

  "What does it matter to you?" asks Sam, rationally and unhelpfully. "You must be relieved you never let it go too far. He's obviously a bastard. Any man who can pursue with such persistence, when they have a perfectly lovely girlfriend sitting at home, must be a complete bastard."

  I stare at Sam who has turned back to her budget scenarios. I don't like what she said. It sits uncomfortably. If he is going to insist on having a girlfriend at all, I want her to be perfectly horrid—a hard, calculating, two-headed monster at least. I don't like the idea of her "sitting at home." Home is established, and sitting is passive. Now if she is out randomly shagging other men, then that would be fine. What perturbs me most is the fact that I have a perfectly lovely husband, if not sitting at home, then certainly pottering around in the shed. If John is a bastard, then I am obviously a class A bitch.

  Sam interrupts my thoughts.

  "At least if he had been really-keen-die-in-a-ditch for you then I might have understood his dogged persistence. But since he just fancied you, liked the challenge, wanted a shag, then he has no right to be so disruptive."

  "My point exactly."

  "But it doesn't matter because he hasn't managed to be too disruptive, has he?"

  I am silent.

  "Has he?" she persists.

  "No." I sigh glumly and return to my electronic solitaire. People put down their pens again; assuming the conversation has come to a close, they no longer have to pretend to be occupied. Sam and I remain silent for some time. The only sounds are the shuffling of papers and the pounding of fingers on keyboards. I can almost hear the cogs of our minds whirling around. The problem is I've slept with him now. Less than a

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  week ago I'd taken him as a lover. It seems childish to decide, at this early stage, that I've made a mistake. I won't call it a day. I can't call it a day. Besides which, Sam has offered me a glimmer of hope. She said that if he'd been really-keen-die-in-a-ditch and we had been one another's destinies, then it'd be OK for him to pursue me and for me to accept. Or something very like it.

  "How will I tell?" I whisper. Universal picking up of pens.

  "Tell what?" She is refusing to lower her voice. She thinks she can shame me.

  "Whether he's really keen, willing to die in a ditch for me?"

  "He'll act like Luke."

  "Thinking back to the way he looked at me in Paris I'm almost certain that he would die in a ditch for me."

  "Don't be stupid, Connie."

  "He acted as though he was crazy about me."

  "'Acted' being the operative word. Believe me, I've been out with a dozen men like him. You're asking for trouble. Forget it, before it goes too far."

  She is wrong. He said I was his favorite smell. He said I was irresistible. That I am entirely fuckable and that he can talk to me, too.

  "Maybe he's feeling threatened and vulnerable. I mean I'm married. He's not only a he, but he's Northern. He's unlikely to wear his heart on his sleeve. I wouldn't like it if he did." I'm warming to my theme. Sam's mouth hangs open.

  "He has to appear nonchalant but he's not at all."

  "So you've shagged him, then?" Sam's been round the block, vicariously and actually, too often to be shocked by infidelity generally, but I can see mine saddens her.

  "We are destined. He just doesn't know it yet."

  "What about Luke?" she screeches.

  Luke?

  "Luke and I met, liked the look of each other, started seeing

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  each other, told each other that we loved each other, got engaged and got married. It was very easy."

  "Delightfully easy."

  "Too easy. That don't seem like destiny does it? I mean there are no lost epistles, no dividing continents, no missed planes, no 'other person.' John might be my destiny and I have to know."

  t have been an adulteress for six weeks. The situation is serious, a national state of emergency. John is all-consuming and although I manage to do the things I've always done, everything is different. Life BJ (Before John), when I went to work Monday to Friday, I resented every moment I was there and complained. A lot. Now, I love work. Every moment is one of unprecedented expectation. I practically make love to the phone every time it rings. I declare war on the phone when it's not John and I ask the phone to marry me if it is. Will he e-mail? Will he pop by my desk? Sometimes he walks by, raises an eyebrow and says "Hi," a secret acknowledgment that we are insatiably bonking one another's brains out. It is so romantic. On the other hand, my evenings have become a lot less productive. Like clockwork, Monday used to be All Bar One with the girls. Get pissed and tell each other intimate secrets that our partners would kill us for sharing. Now All Bar One is becoming a drag. I have no one to talk to.

  I've only confided in Sam, which
I am hugely regretting. Sam is too nice to have such tales of duplicity thrust upon her. She hates meeting Luke now she knows what I'm up to. She goes red and stammers as Luke greets her with his usual friendly peck on the cheek. Daisy, who observed Sam's obvious

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  discomfort, asked me if I thought Sam had a crush on Luke. I'm terrified that Sam's lack of guile will give me away. It's only a matter of time before she wails and beats her chest, shouting, "I know nothing. Pull out my fingernails but I'll tell you nothing about Connie's horrific, adulterous affair."

  I've considered confiding in Daisy but could I destroy her idea of the "Happily Ever After"? She needs to believe in this with absolute, unwavering commitment. More selfishly, could I stand her disapproval?

  No way would I tell Rose. I can imagine her sanctimonious reprimands, or worse, her charity.

  Lucy would be a good person to confide in as she is excellent on the subject of men and an expert on the subject of infidelity. She is extremely clinical about sex and relationships. Lucy wouldn't give me a hard time. I just haven't had the opportunity to see her on her own. She's really wrapped up in this new man of hers. If not emotionally, then certainly physically. My lack of confidantes has left me feeling removed and secretive. I am not used to keeping secrets and I'm not very good at it, so as a precaution against alcohol-induced 'fessing sessions I avoid getting pissed with the girls. They think that I'm trying for a baby. Clearly, staying sober, when all your mates are hell-bent on getting paralytic, is not a clever way to make friends and influence people.

  John is the only one really in on the secret and I can hardly call him and say, "Let's just run over the details of last time we met—what exactly were you wearing? What was I wearing?" I can hardly say, "And when you said that you thought I was exceptional, what exactly did you mean? More or less exceptional than your girlfriend? And this girlfriend thing: she can't be very important if you are sleeping with me and countless others, can she?" Hmmm. Finding out about the countless others was soul-destroying. I comfort myself that the number is not countless exactly, he is constrained by time and energy. But

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  it has quickly become apparent that there are certainly quite a few others.

  Besides me.

  And besides his girlfriend.

  They are mostly one-night stands; he doesn't often bother with repeat performances. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't accept this. Certainly, when I was single if some bloke offered me the opportunity to be part of a chorus line I'd tell him to take a hike. However big his dick was. Or cute his smile. But these aren't normal circumstances. I am in a tricky position. It is difficult to complain. I'm the married one. I can hardy adopt the moral high ground or make a pitch for commitment. I'm not the regular girlfriend; she is the one entitled to do the nagging. Anyway, his inability to stay faithful to his girlfriend is actually a source of comfort, rather than concern, to me. Clearly this is another indication that she is not his destiny, which gives me a better crack at the whip, if I should decide I want to be ringmaster. On that subject I am still irresolute. I can't imagine leaving Luke. So when I think of destinies I mean I have to see this through to some sort of conclusion destiny, rather than J have to have this man or die destiny. The problem is I cannot imagine what that conclusion will be.

  Doing without him is not a viable option.

  Tuesday and Wednesday are still gym nights but I no longer visit reluctantly. I've embraced the gym as my new best friend. Stray shagging has made me very conscious of my body and although I'm not Roseanne, I'm not Elle Macpherson either. Luckily, living a life of deception has proven to be a really good dieting technique. It gives a whole new complexion to the F-Plan. I go to the gym with a religious verve, not only Tuesday and Wednesday evenings but four or five mornings a week as well.

  On Thursday, Luke and I still go out for a meal, providing he isn't working. Naturally my lack of interest in food, and my

  newly acquired status of adulterer, have had a colossal effect on the intimacy and cordiality of these evenings; in other words, they're not as much a laugh as they used to be. We don't seem to have too much conversation. No more riotous giggling as he blows bubbles through his nose or I mispronounce brassiere as "brassier." It's understandable that we no longer make each other laugh until we're asked to leave a restaurant, but I do sort of miss it. Although I'm really lucky that John is such a comedian. I'm always laughing with him now.

  Friday, we do what every other married couple in the Western World do on a Friday, i.e., have a TV fest. Watch Coronation Street, Brookside, Friends and Streetmate, eat pizza, ignore the telephone and not move from the settee.

  Not for anything.

  Except the pizza delivery man.

  Now the TV fest also lacks the intimacy of old. I get uncontrollably hot over the Scouse accents on Brookie and never before had I noticed how poignant soaps are. The rest of the weekend is an endless expanse of tedium, throughout which I do grievous bodily harm to time until I can get back to work. Saturday morning, obligatory fight with the other trolleys in Tesco (awful). Saturday afternoon, obligatory fight with the other shoppers on the King's Road (fabulous). Saturday evening, dinner party with girls and our various partners. Sunday morning, sleep. Sunday afternoon, roller-blade (well, that's what we did this summer, last summer we played baseball, we take our lead from Wallpaper). Then Sunday night is spent squeezing really painful spots and ironing Luke's shirts. We still do the dinner thing on Saturdays and the blading on Sundays but the warmth is lacking. Luke is busier than usual with his work, his car, his fishing, whatever, so he hasn't noticed a change. He spends literally hours in his shed. What he does in there is quite beyond me. When we first got married I was fiercely jealous of his shed, I raided it, expecting to find

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  well-thumbed porno mags. I emerged with nothing more incriminating than a pile of his old clothes that I thought I'd thrown out and he'd rescued. Rose told me not to think of the shed as a threat but instead be grateful—"he isn't trailing mud into the house and he is in calling distance if you need to get something from a very high shelf."

  The main change to my week's routine is that it can no longer be routine. There is always the possibility of an unexpected rendezvous. My all-consuming interest in him means that I find it hard to concentrate on the minutiae of life—such as carrying an umbrella, ironing a shirt or returning library books. This detail is not grand enough for me, not interesting, simply not him. I forget to eat. I have barely slept since Paris. When I do sleep I am too agitated to sink into steady unconsciousness but instead delight in being sustained by dizzy, sexy dreams. Just thinking about him makes me come, so I indulge in obscene amounts of mental masturbation; I have filthy thoughts as I sit on buses, trains and in cars. I fantasize as I walk down the street, play with my food, watch TV. I have such heady thoughts about him. I'm fucking delirious.

  I'm extra fucking delirious now, as I walk toward the Hen and Cock, a grungy pub off the Caledonian Road. We never go anywhere really smart. Mostly he takes me to grubby pubs, like the ones he described in Paris. Still, I am certainly safe from bumping into any of my friends. It's five past eight, which makes me five minutes late. Quite an achievement as I've been ready over an hour. I shove open the heavy wooden door, sidestepping the vomit splattered on the pavement. It takes a nanosecond for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. I see an aging sex symbol in a tight leopard-skin top behind the bar. She nods at me, possibly acknowledging that I am the only other woman in the joint. She is playing out the stereotypical part of the tart with a golden heart and letting some mangy-looking dog on a string lick out Guinness from a glass. I watch

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  as the glass hardly hits the water in the sink before she puts it on the shelf again. I make a mental note to myself not to order anything to drink that comes in a pint glass. The place is not so much "spit and sawdust" because there is no sawdust, only sticky lino. Sti
cky lino, grimy glasses, loos that are positive health hazards. Initially, these venues of dubious reputation intimidated me. I missed my choice of twelve wines and eight designer beers. I didn't think that salt 'n vinegar crisps would be able to replace mozzarella on sun-dried-tomato bread, as a bar snack. But now I'm grateful that I don't have to fight my way through crowds of trendy wankers with rounded vowels and wallets. These pubs with old men in stained trousers are more real. I'm ecstatic.

  He is there when I arrive. I clock him and my heart stops. He smiles and it starts again. Every time I see him I am freshly surprised by his beauty. He scans round the pub with an expert, practiced eye, locating the fag machine and the dark corners. He doesn't lead me directly to the dark corners, too obvious. Instead he chooses a location that is center stage, for us to perform on. He likes to show off, he wants us to be seen. I sit with my back ramrod straight, proud of him. He's unusually handsome, no, stunning. We are alarmingly beautiful.

  "How was your day?"

  "Shit."

  "Yours?"

  "Crap."

  "That's because you have a talent and you are wasting it." I nod. Whenever I'm drunk I think I can be the next Annie Leibovitz.

  "I hate my job," he says as he drains his pint before we've even settled into our seats. "Want another?" He indicates my empty glass. I nod.

  He comes back to the table with refills and says, "But it pays a fortune now I'm managing this big job with London

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  Underground. Details of which I can't go into because of client confidentiality. If I tell you, I'll have no choice but to shoot you." He grins and goes on. "To be honest, if I tell you, you will probably terminate through tedium. I won't need to shoot you."

  I laugh. Like mine, his job is an infuriating cocktail of pride and shame. I try to cheer him up.

  "Yeah, you've done well." Management consultancies usually hire Southern, Oxbridge types. BBC English and a lifetime of protection through conformity and a family name. Tools that help them grow the life-armor of arrogance. He has succeeded with his Liverpudlian accent, comprehensive education and enormous chip. As we both find our work tedious we don't talk about it much, which is not to say we don't talk about anything solid. We behave like students, profoundly putting the world to rights over a pint and a pie. I hadn't realized that I'd missed the irresponsible optimism; I certainly don't miss the damp accommodation or the essay crises. We talk about feelings and thoughts and experiences, which are raw and red and real and truthful. I have no interest in "gap analysis" and "Charter of intent." The only gap I'm worried about is the gap between our meetings (I never allow myself to think beyond that) and as for charter of intent, well, I think I'm pretty clear with regard to his intentions.