The Story After Us: A heartwarming tale of life and love for modern women everywhere

by Fiona Perrin

  ‘You’re probably used to seeing girls with not many clothes on,’ I told him when he did turn up exactly half an hour after he’d left, bearing a couple of cartons of leek and potato soup, a bottle of Tesco merlot and a baguette. He was wearing pale jeans, which were very clean, a puffa jacket in dark blue and a large wool scarf that packaged up his aquiline face.

  He looked at me quizzically.

  ‘What with being Swedish and all that,’ I said.

  He laughed – his laugh seemed to sing a little too. ‘We are not spending all of the time with clothes off having sex in the snow,’ he informed me, putting soup down on the bench and looking around for a saucepan as if he’d known me and my kitchen cupboards for a very long time instead of moments.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It was just that I don’t normally open the door, you know, without being dressed. But I thought you were my flatmate. She never remembers her keys.’

  ‘She has a bicycle and red hair?’

  I realised that he must have spied on us as we’d spied on him over the days since he’d arrived.

  ‘Liv, yes. And I’m Amelia – or Ami for short.’

  He looked at me solemnly and held out his hand. ‘Lars.’

  ‘From where in Sweden?’ I wished my voice didn’t seem to be going up and down too as if I were taking the piss out of him.

  ‘I was from Stockholm but I went to uni in Malmö.’

  ‘What are you doing over here?’

  ‘I’m setting up a business,’ he said, and for some reason it didn’t sound ridiculous.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘It is dotcom. I’m doing a business management course at UCL.’ Lars looked around from where he was trying to get the cooker to work. ‘Why it is not hot?’

  I hung my head, remembering. ‘We’ve run out of money for the gas,’ I told him, embarrassed.

  ‘What is it that you need to do?’ He was brisk.

  ‘Take some money to the corner shop and get a top-up. God, sorry, it’s just it’s the last week before payday and Liv doesn’t really have a job and…’

  He held out a tenner. I shrugged, turning pink. ‘Couldn’t.’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I really want lunch and my flatmate is in upstairs.’ I blushed, because that meant he wanted to be alone with me, didn’t it?

  ‘I’ll give it back to you on Friday,’ I said. How humiliating. And I wanted him to think I was a competent, comprehensively together career girl.

  ‘Go,’ he said, and I pulled on my coat, scuttled round the corner and bought ten pounds of credit. When I came back Lars had already cut up the bread and found bowls, a couple of glasses and two blotchy spoons and had put them onto our old wooden tray. He smiled as I fed the meter and he flicked the cooker into life.

  ‘Will it be warmer now?’ he asked, reaching for his neck as if he could potentially loosen his scarf.

  ‘A bit,’ I said. ‘But the windows leak and the door has a massive draught. I’ll pay you back, by the way.’

  He smiled. ‘I know that. What is draught? Is important that I improve my English.’

  ‘It’s a cold wind that comes through the gaps in the doors and windows.’ I gestured towards the frame of the kitchen window with its peeling paint. ‘What’s your flat like?’

  ‘Pretty much same shit,’ he said. ‘But I’m not there. I go to classes and then I go and see other IT people.’

  ‘Are you a geek?’ I leant against the kitchen doorway. I seemed to attract them – like Archie. Liv called me the ‘nerd-bird’.

  ‘A bit probably. But I do lots of things that are not geek.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I like music and books and funny English girls.’

  I blushed and looked at the floor.

  ‘And I like girls who open door in towels. We eat?’

  We sat on the floor with our backs against the sofa and the duvet from Liv’s bed over our knees and, helped by the bottle of red wine, the warmth of the soup and half an enormous baguette each, we rounded out our stomachs and knowledge of each other.

  He asked me about my work and I happily tripped on about branding and how I didn’t know then whether to pursue a career in the creative department or in sales.

  Lars told me his dotcom idea. ‘I launch a business for people’s brilliant ideas. They get noticed and get funding from bigger businesses. The website will help them get what you call patents, via cheap lawyers over the Internet. I call it i-patent.com,’ he finished in increasingly confident English.

  ‘Are you going to get seed capital?’ I asked and hoped like hell I’d got the terminology right.

  He looked impressed. ‘I have to try and meet as many backers as possible.’

  Later he went and fetched his laptop so he could show me his site designs; the flat had got warmer, so we sat on top of the duvet and finished off the bottle. I tried hard to sound intelligent about his business plan and made a few suggestions for the marketing section and he smiled, nodded and took notes.

  By then it was halfway through the afternoon, when any light that came through the basement windows was being rapidly eaten by the greed of the February night.

  Even later still, he picked up my hand and said, ‘Ami, I like you.’ His grip was warm and strong.

  ‘You might be all right too,’ I said. He looked at me for a second too long and I blushed and quickly looked away. He looked and smelt very clean and male; he also smelt of ambition and, in that cold winter of my early career, that was very appealing.

  Liv came back about five o’clock and seemed impressed that I’d managed to pull the new tenant from upstairs with no assistance. She didn’t even mention the use of her duvet or the fact that I was wearing her new jumper.

  ‘So, you’re Swedish?’ Liv said, looking at Lars. ‘I do like your accent.’

  ‘Yes, but I need to be in London to get money for my business,’ Lars told her.

  ‘Your English is very good.’

  ‘We learn it from when we are really young in my country. Do you work in marketing like Ami?’

  ‘No,’ Liv said. ‘I create and deliver the fashion of the future.’

  ‘I will try to understand that as I become friends with you,’ Lars said. ‘Do you want to come to dinner with us this evening?’ He hadn’t actually asked me whether I was either free or willing to spend the evening with him, but I just smiled broadly.

  ‘I’ve got a date,’ Liv said, ‘but thanks anyway.’

  ‘And I haven’t got enough money to go anywhere,’ I said. I also had a tentative date with Archie but that seemed like something I used to do before I met Lars and, therefore, of little relevance. ‘Until I get paid next week.’

  ‘Well, that’s what we do, then,’ said Lars. ‘I buy you dinner this week and you next week.’

  ‘How do you know you’ll want to go out with him next week?’ Liv hissed as we both sped off into the bedroom to get tarted up.

  ‘I just do,’ I said. ‘I just do.’

  7

  2017

  On the Sunday morning after Finn’s party, I woke up cold but sweating. Among all the things I could worry about, I decided to focus on the immediate – the toe-curling humiliation of trying to win the advertising account that would save my agency from a man who probably knew what I sounded like when I orgasmed, if Liv had resorted to one of her old impressions of me.

  I rang her phone, imagining her rolling over in her bed and punching the ‘do not accept call’ button before going back to sleep. I rang again and then again, until she eventually said, ‘gmmfppphh’ down the line.

  ‘I need to know everything you told Ben Jones about me,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night…’

  My phone said 7.43 a.m. Clearly morning in most people’s worlds when they were on a mission.

  ‘I need to know now,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t I at least have a coffee first?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Liv said. ‘
Well, it was one of those really pretentious parties under the arches in London Bridge, you know, fake chandeliers hung from the roof, bits of really crap modern art dotted around.’

  ‘What kind of modern art?’

  ‘Some bloke called Cockney, which I think is supposed to make you think of Hockney, but cool. There was one called something like “the serendipitous state of sorrow” or some other crap, which was actually an old black and white TV on its side showing a bloke masturbating. I wanted to laugh but everyone else kept walking round saying really poncey stuff about it. Matthew was with me but he got talking to a load of hipsters with beards that practically reached their navels so I was on my own.’

  ‘When you got chatted up by Ben Jones?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t really like that. I had about six glasses on an empty stomach. Not a canapé in sight. Anyway, he came along and was sniggering about the art too and I said something like, “If we hang around long enough do you think we’ll see some serendipitous sperm?” and he laughed so we got chatting.’

  ‘Really high-level intellectual stuff, then?’

  ‘I can’t believe you woke me up so bloody early to be all superior. I could be asleep now.’

  ‘All right, go on.’ I lay back in my own bed and listened for the sounds of the kids moving around but there was silence from the landing.

  ‘Then he said he was sorry his new company threw such wanky parties and, once I realised who he was, I tried to get him to give me one of the bags, but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Liv, they’re like £1,500 for a tiny clutch bag.’

  ‘I know, right? Gorgeous though, all soft calf leather, bright pop colours. Then we went and sat down, which was handy as I was about to fall down. And he started going on about how he was in London from Milan and how he didn’t have any friends here any more. He was originally from the north – somewhere like Burnley or Barnsley… still probably calls a bread roll a “barm cake”.’

  ‘So, then you decided to set him up with me?’

  ‘Well, we drank quite a bit of champagne first – actually I did. He didn’t drink anything as he was driving or something like that.’

  ‘He was as sober as a Methodist?’ I groaned. That meant he’d remember all the tosh Liv told him.

  ‘Hmmm, one whose grandma died of liver failure,’ Liv said. ‘So anyway, then I decided he wasn’t bad-looking for an older guy – bit lived in, that’s all – late thirties, early forties. Divorced, two kids. Six foot tall, dark blond hair.’

  ‘I’m not dumb enough to go out with another blond.’

  ‘If you’re going to tell jokes this early in the morning, they need to be good ones. So anyway, I said to him: you need people to hang out with and I’ve got this friend who lives right near where you’re staying – he’s in Highgate.’

  I took a deep breath while I digested being pimped in this way. ‘So, what did you tell him about me?’

  ‘Well, that’s the part where it starts to get a bit hazy.’ Liv’s voice was hesitant down the phone. ‘But I told him about you working in branding and all that and he suddenly got really interested.’

  ‘Bugger,’ I said. ‘He was probably going to ask Goldwyn to pitch, but now he’s got one over on me.’

  ‘Didn’t stop you getting a meeting with him, though, did it?’ Liv sounded triumphant. ‘You see, really I’ve done you a favour.’

  We talked for a little bit more as I wondered exactly what she’d told him while she had all the gusto of the truly shit-faced. Then she asked me about Lars and I told her about him telling me to get a lawyer and the phone call eventually ended when I couldn’t talk for crying.

  *

  I slumped red-eyed in my chair at the office on Monday morning. Bridget was upstairs at a meeting and I was very glad to be alone in the tiny room. I’d dragged myself through the rest of the weekend with the kids and drunk my way through the evening, waking up in the early hours with a hangover, popping Nurofen and drinking water as the dawn light crept round the curtains.

  My biggest task of the day was to call Ben and tell him all about the massive misunderstanding Liv had caused and make sure that he knew that I meant business and just business. After that I needed to do everything else possible to win some more work.

  First, I’d have a coffee and clear my inbox. Let Ben have time to get in, look at his diary. Then I’d say briskly that, yes, the owl was hilarious but I wasn’t in a fit state to go out with anyone. I intended to stay very married, if at all possible. I would still be there on Wednesday to get the brief for the pitch.

  It was only a stupid phone call. When had I been terrified of making a phone call?

  I picked up the receiver and then slammed it down again. Then I sat down and punched the number in before I could stop myself. ‘Hello, this is Amelia Fitch for Ben Jones,’ I whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that,’ said the receptionist in her modulated tones.

  ‘Ben Jones, please.’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Amelia Fitch.’

  ‘There’s no need to shout.’ She sniffed. ‘Putting you through.’

  The phone rang far too briefly. I stood up to feel more in control and switched the phone to the other ear.

  ‘Ben Jones,’ said the amused lilt from the weekend.

  ‘Ami Fitch,’ I said. ‘I’m phoning about this ridiculous muddle-up. Liv had no right to tell you all about me and when I rang the other day I didn’t know that she’d met you.’

  ‘Ahh,’ chuckled the voice. ‘You know, when you’re not shouting, your friend was quite right. Your voice is like a gravel pit.’

  Thanks, Liv. Thanks for that one. ‘I’m phoning in a professional capacity,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, really? How disappointing. Tell me, is your hair really the colour of posh chocolate?’

  ‘It costs a lot of money,’ I said with indignation, thinking about how I wouldn’t be able to afford it any more. ‘Look, I really want to be on the list of agencies that you might want to work with, but the personal thing is just Liv being silly.’

  ‘You don’t believe it’s the next step in fate’s cunning plan to get us to meet?’

  ‘No.’ I tried not to sound exasperated.

  ‘You have to accept, Ami – and Liv said this was a little bit of an issue with you – that at some time in your life there will be some things that are beyond your control.’

  I stamped my foot and made V-signs at the phone. He obviously thought the situation was hilarious. ‘Well, now you come to mention it,’ I said.

  ‘Were you being sarcastic then?’ Ben asked. ‘It’s taking me a while since I got back to England to really understand sarcasm again.’

  What a bastard.

  ‘Look,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m a serious person. I seem to have inadvertently become the victim of my friend being drunk. Liv should not have told you all these details about me – it was very inappropriate.’

  ‘I haven’t laughed as much in ages as when I rang you on Saturday.’

  ‘Please. I’d like to come and see you on Wednesday to discuss your advertising and I’d like to forget about anything between us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m just not ready to go to lunch with anyone,’ I said, adding to myself that even if I were, it wouldn’t be with him – a bloke who clearly thought my life was one big joke purely for his benefit and who was mocking me when I felt so distraught. ‘So, shall we stick to that appointment time on Wednesday?’

  ‘You do like to think you are in charge, just as Liv said,’ Ben went on. ‘But I also know that when you forget about that you are wonderfully relaxed and just the best friend there is in the whole world.’

  I groaned. It was a pretty accurate imitation of a drunk, over-affectionate Liv. ‘She shouldn’t have told you all that stuff.’

  ‘So, yes, I will see you at 10 a.m. on Wednesday and I will expect you at 9.50 a.m. because you’re always ten minutes early to everything.’

  ‘Please stop.�
��

  ‘OK, but only if you tell me what happened to the owl.’

  ‘Eventually the paramedics came but he was fine. My husband – I mean…’

  ‘Your nearly ex-husband?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘he had to help me get the animals back in the van and off he went.’

  ‘It was very funny.’

  ‘Yes. As you said: a complete hoot.’ My voice was thick with sarcasm.

  ‘Liv said you lost your sense of humour sometimes.’

  ‘I said STOP.’

  ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday, then.’

  ‘Look forward to it.’ I could imagine him cackling to himself over in Hanover Square, sitting back in his huge important chair and thinking what a fantastic laugh it was to wind up poor divorcing, disintegrating me.

  If only he weren’t in charge of the only massive account in London advertising to be up for grabs at the moment.

  If only my business weren’t going down the drain.

  If only pretty much everything really.

  *

  ‘Oh no,’ Bridget said. It was later that day and she was back at her desk.

  ‘What is it?’

  Bridget went fuchsia. ‘You’re not going to like this…’ she said and started tapping away at her laptop.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Land has gone bust.’ She looked as if she were going to cry.

  ‘No…’ It couldn’t be happening. I ran to Bridget’s desk where a page from the FT online was kicking into life on the screen.

  ‘Land the Bootmakers in receivership,’ said the headline. I let out a caterwaul and skim-read the article. There had been huge efforts to refinance the company but the banks weren’t convinced… Five hundred people were under threat of redundancy… creditors were to be contacted.