‘So you like her then?!’ Ed says, smirking.
The know-all git. Of course I like her, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that, just yet. Although it’s damned obvious anyway.
‘Yeah she’s a nice girl,’ I say, trying to sound coy about it.
‘Nice girl, she’s gorgeous and she likes you!’ chips in Kate with her penny’s worth.
I can’t help but smile. Kate chucks one of the suede cushions from the couch at me.
‘Okay, okay. You’re right, I like her,’ I laugh. ‘She’s wonderful, I do really like her.’
Kate looks over at Ed, I see him wink.
‘Charming, beautiful, intelligent, funny, great banter and bags of confidence. Thanks guys. I’d love to see her again.’
‘Well she has just broken up with a long-term boyfriend. So perhaps best to play it cool.’ Ed kindly informs me after all that.
‘Is she ok about it?’ I ask, nervously, my stomach rising into my gullet. Fears of déjà vu rush through my mind. It all starts well, so much promise and they go nuts on me. Please don’t let this pan out like all the others.
‘Yes, I think so, but perhaps best not to rush it,’ Ed says.
‘We could all go out to the theatre as a group, give you two the chance to chat some more, without it being a full-on date.’ Kate suggests.
I’m starting to like Kate. Where the hell is all this humanity and compassion coming from?
The next day I get into work as usual. Well I say as usual, that unfamiliar bounce in my stride is still there, from the night before. I can’t see myself, obviously, but I probably have some inane grin on my face. I must do, several of the secretaries have already commented on it. They’re always the first to know, anything. I go get a mug of coffee from the small kitchen area down the corridor. Someone has put a poster up asking us not to leave sugar on the worktops, as mice have been seen skulking around recently. Delightful. What is it about London offices and rodents?
Ensconcing myself at my desk, coffee within easy reach, I boot up my PC. It’s an open plan office, most media type places are these days, I guess. Apart from the seccies, I’m the only one in the office so far. The lift signals that someone is about to arrive. In strides Rosie, my boss.
‘Hey Rosie how are you?’ I ask.
‘Fine. Thank you, Max. And how are you?’ She seems unnerved.
I always ask her how she is, don’t I? May be not. The secretaries giggle.
My computer scares itself into life, then calms down to a gentle hum. My inbox pops up automatically. The first thing I see is an email from Ed. I thought I was in early, not sure how he made it in before me, after such a big one. Good effort. The first line makes me feel ecstatic:
Max forget what I know about women, I had an email from Jenn, thanking me for last night, and she said she would be really happy for you to get in touch, and ask her out.
I waste no time in sending her an email. I love email, it’s so instantaneous. Do you think that companies realise that their employees only use email for proper purposes about 10% of the time? The remaining 90% of the time it acts as your party planner, social life organiser and as a distraction to the humdrum of the working day. Within minutes we arrange a date for that night. A drink after work in Farringdon.
Jennifer arrives on time. I have been there for a few minutes already. Partly to secure a table at the ever-popular Smiths. But also to psych myself up for seeing her again. I can’t quite get over the fact that less than twenty-four hours ago I was a happy singleton. Leading an uncomplicated life. And now all the decisions I have made over the last few months have gone out of the window. All the emotions I have had to understand, accept and lay to rest have flared up, uncontrollably. I suppose you could say I’m sort of, well, nervous. She is looking very elegant in a camel skirt and cream top, finished off with another pair of Italian shoes and clutching, what appears to be, a hideously expensive handbag. She is preened and manicured. I like her, not just because of how she looks, but because of how she makes me feel.
We settle into our seats by the window overlooking Smithfield and start knocking back the red wine. There’s no awkwardness at all, not like there is on so many first dates. We chat about all kinds of things. No subject is a taboo, and there is a very relaxed feeling between us. Neither of us is holding anything back. I can’t believe how well it’s going. I haven’t felt like this, with a girl, in years. At least not since I started dating Jessica (before it all went wrong). In fact it’s even better than that. I am fascinated by her, we have so much in common.
‘No way I can’t believe you know the Jenkins in St Kitts, they’re my parents’ oldest friends.’
‘My mum is a teacher too… French, no way that’s my mother’s subject…Oh my God, carbonara is my favourite – you’d cook it for me? I’d love that [pats my knee]… I always light up a candle too.’
Okay, so you get the picture. If one of Trisha’s TV psychologists had been sitting next to us on that first date, analysing our every move, he could have reached only one conclusion. He would have noted the positive body language, moving closer together, lots of gratuitous touching, smiling and laughing, shy glances etc. Then there’s the fact that we seem so similar; our philosophies on life, our interests, we make each other laugh. He would have the audience screaming in delight at, in his opinion, the perfect match.
I don’t think I could ever have expected things to go this well. We decide to move from the crowded bar, in favour of some dinner. The second-floor restaurant is full, but the maitre d’ assures us there is an excellent table on the third floor. I have eaten here before, on a work lunch, but then the client was paying. The top floor restaurant at Smiths specialises in rare meats and the food is exquisite.
Pigeon breast salad. Half a dozen fresh Cley oysters. Pheasant, shot that day, finished with foie gras. Wild boar and red currant sausages with creamed mash. And two bottles of Tinto di Viejo. On top of everything else, we are full to the brim and decidedly tipsy. The meal has been full of laughter and incessant chatter. I have even learnt a few words of Swedish. Knulle. Pulle. Øl. Skål. Which, in English, means fuck, shag, beer and cheers. In that order, I think. We keep reaching through the various glasses on the table, which look like oversized chess pieces standing on designated squares, to find the other one’s hand. It’s the sort of scene that a few days ago would have made me feel nauseous. I would have asked myself, does that guy really know what he is doing? Some time soon, he will be getting bored of her, no matter how he feels right now. Now I would shout out, bah humbug, this feeling will never end. How can you have these feelings, so strong, yet poles apart and experience the shift from one to the other, in a matter of days, hours even?
It is because it feels so right that going back to her place seems natural. The proper end to a perfect evening. As we slump into the hackney cab’s leather seat, having mustered adequate sobriety to give accurate directions, we huddle up together. For the first time in a long time, I notice the difference between this cab journey and all other similar ones I had taken over the past year. That cab journey to fornication (sometimes). Back then it’s what I had worked all night for. The endless, mind-numbing conversations. The feigned interest in the new Karen Millen stall that’s opened here or had a sale on there. The inane banter I would make with her annoying friend, while she has gone to the loo. The ridiculous amounts of cash I spent buying her, and aforementioned friend, copious amounts of alcopops. Then you manage to persuade them to go to hers. Hers is always better, that way you can leave when you want in the morning. And when you get to hers it’s time to reap the fruits of your labours. But no matter how good they are, you always leave unfulfilled.
However, this cab journey is not the same. It doesn’t feel sleazy. Sure the good old Rioja has broken down those English barriers, well on my part at any rate. But it hasn’t been used as a device, as a means to a carnal end. We’ve just had a great night. And now we are going home. As a couple.
‘Why don’t you get the bottle in the fridge, glasses are in the cupboard next to it. I’m going to put some music on, and tidy the bedroom,’ she giggles as she finishes off the instruction. For it is an in instruction.
I watch her slink out of the lounge, her bare feet patting, feline-like, on the Maplewood floor. I trundle off into the kitchen. There is steel everywhere. Pots and pans. An array of implements and utensils. An American-style fridge, the type that puts ice in your drinks – crushed or cubed. I tug at the door. It doesn’t move. I try again and nearly go flying backwards. In the door is an already opened bottle of Chablis, must be the one. The wet coolness of the bottle in my hand is soothing. With my free hand I pick up two large glasses. I try and kick the fridge door shut with the side of my foot, as I spin round to leave the kitchen. I miss. I hear that giggle.
Standing there in the doorway is Jennifer. She has discarded her camel skirt and accompaniments. She is wearing a small pair of briefs, the kind girls wear in American teen movies. The ones that look like they should be illegal. She has let down her blonde hair. A little cotton top, white with thin straps, hangs from her dainty shoulders and finishes somewhere above her tummy button. I’m stunned into silence. She can see this. Jennifer walks over, placing a hand flat on each of my cheeks, she places her lips over mine. Her tongue slides into my mouth. It’s the first time we have kissed. It’s right.
I could say it was mind-blowing, or sweet, or erotic, or phenomenal, or hot. And it is all of those things, and none of them. The best thing I can say is that it was right. You might not know what I mean, but I do. And it is better than all those things put together.
She takes the glasses from my left hand, and slips her own hand into mine. She leads me through into the bedroom, without saying a word. She pauses only to turn out the lounge and hall lights. A faint golden glow emits from the jar in the bedroom door. The pine door that leads from the hall, swings open into her room. There are candles, church candles by their dozen. All shapes and all sizes. A congregation of illumination. The glasses go on the side, together with the dripping bottle. Jennifer stares into me as she unbuttons my shirt. Pulling it back and down over my shoulders, past my arms, she lets it drop to the floor. Before I know it I am naked. She slips the straps off those perfect little shoulders, it slides down past her waist and joins my shirt on the floorboards. I slide my hands down her midriff and under the sides of her briefs.
Have you ever seen a body so perfect that you have to touch it? That first with your eyes, then with your fingers and lastly with your lips you have to map every square inch. To appreciate every slight undulation, to explore each dainty little crease, from peak to fallow. Her skin is silky, a shimmering golden brown as delicious as caramel. If ever there was an Eve she is it, and yet beautiful, most beautifully of all she is totally unaware. That innocent naivety coats her with a finishing gloss of total and utter perfection. To avert your eyes for one moment would be to punish them and insult her.
Someone once said that there are some things about which you cannot speak. They are so fragile, so perfect, that to utter it will cause it to splinter into a million pieces. And so it is.
The morning sun shines like an epiphany through the muslin drapes that cover the renovated sash windows. The golden weft from the sky strays over the face of the girl lying next to me. I lean on one side and gaze at her for a while, as she sleeps. Panda eyes, the odd snuffly snore and a wee damp patch by her lips on the pillow. She looks lovely. I can’t help but smile, for the first time I can think of, I feel totally content. I’m not begrudging being here, the morning after. There is no other place I would sooner be. Extricating myself carefully from the white cotton sheets, so as not to wake her, I tiptoe through the beams of sunlight. I pause at the bedroom door to give a glance back at her. I head into the kitchen and put the coffee can on the hob. An image of Dirty Dave’s disapproving scowl pops into my head. Knowing he’d be thinking less of me, if he could see me now. Well, screw you Dirty! You can have your Friday night shags. You can keep your endless amounts of nightclub mingers, in fact you can have my quota too. I know what I want, and it’s back in that bedroom. And I’m buggered if I can’t make her coffee. Now and every other day.
While it’s brewing I throw on my jeans and shirt. I unlock the front door and put the keys in my pocket. The silly key fob, in the shape of a Scottie dog, agonisingly digs into my nuts as I take my first few steps down the stairs. I suppose girls don’t have to worry about such impracticalities with their key rings. They have those Mary Poppins bottomless handbags, which can take a key fob that the chief screw of the Tower of London would envy. I think to myself, ‘There must be a delicatessen or coffee shop round here somewhere.’ Luckily, as I emerge from the front door, into the hot morning sun, there is a Greek deli just under the flat. I buy some Danishes, the Sunday Times and a copy of this month’s Heat magazine.
I return to the flat, just in time to find the coffee pot blowing off steam. It doesn’t sound happy. There’s a stir from the bedroom, followed by a slight groan. I remove the coffee pot from the hob. Instantly its aggression subsides. I find a large plate in one of the cupboards. No one has trays these days – God, I’m sounding like my mother. I place the pastries on the plate, along with a knob of hard unsalted butter and a knife. I wedge the two mugs of coffee in between the Danishes. Impatiently I pull off my shirt like it’s a sweater and tug my jeans free of my feet. Holding the plate in one hand and the reading material in the other I wander through the hall back into the boudoir.
17
Kismet
I want to tell you about this bit separately. You see, it was all perfect. Walking back into the bedroom, that morning. It was the perfect morning; unaccustomedly warm. You would have been forgiven for thinking you had awoken in a small Tuscan town. Wandering into the village to pick up some fresh breakfast delicacies. That civilised continental breakfast, prepared for your loved one, your beautiful little angelita. That morning we ate breakfast together, in bed. Snuggled up. Laying on top, then under the covers. Ignoring the day outside, in favour of basking in our own happiness and the ability to explore all those great new things together. We didn’t leave the room until it was almost dark.
Jennifer and I saw each other several times that week, and the following week. We would meet during the day for lunch, and then arrange to go out the next night. We had often spent the previous night together as well. Normally, if a girl suggests seeing me more than twice in a week I would be running for the door. But I didn’t mind. Actually, it was the total opposite. I wanted to see her every evening – okay perhaps not every evening, but most nights.
Then out of the blue, last week, at work, I received this email.
Dearest Max,
I don’t know how to tell you this. I will understand if you never speak to me again. I can’t see you any more. Not for the moment. I want to be totally honest with you, and I hope that, for this at least, you will forgive me.
Last night, something happened that I could never have predicted. As you know, I think, I recently separated from my boyfriend. We had been together for three years. I was at that friend’s birthday. I wasn’t expecting to see him there. Someone had told him I had started to see someone new. We had a long chat, all night. He realised he had made a mistake, and said that he loved me. I can’t just throw those three years away.
Also I will be leaving for Sweden soon, to complete my Masters. It seems silly to start something serious at this stage now.
I never meant to mislead you. There was definitely something special between us. But how do I know if this will last, I
’m confused. I know what I had with John was incredible as well, even if it did have its ups and downs. Please don’t be angry, particularly with yourself, it’s my fault, and I feel terrible.
Please forgive me.
With love,
Jenn
As I read the first paragraph, before I even get to the second or third ones, I start to feel nauseous. It’s awful. But I can’t help my eyes falling from the precipice of one word to the emotional crater of the next. I can’t quite believe it. This really is the last thing that I could ever have expected. I read on. My surprise, and propensity to vomiting at any second, passes to a feeling of utter anger.
‘John’ – I don’t want to know his fucking name! Of course he’s going to say he loves her. He wants her back, and will say anything he thinks that she will want to hear. He’s probably had a few weeks in London’s dating world and realised how terrible it is, now he wants to get back in her knickers. He wouldn’t have nobbled the other girl at the office party if he loved her.
But the anger passes as quickly as it flared up. Disappointment followed by frustration. Frustration that I can’t make her be with me. Then the anger returns. I don’t feel angry at her, I am just angry. I don’t think anything bad of her, I can’t. She’s not a cow, or a bitch or any other female equivalent of a bastard. Telling myself such untruths won’t make me feel any better, besides I could never believe it. She is everything that I ever wanted. I realise that I love her.
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