by Parks, Adele
I am in hell.
16
Jo
I am used to being humiliated by men. Far more used than is ideal, actually. Especially men with sparkly blue eyes and dark hair. But still this latest humiliation scorches. I only started to talk to him because, well, I need company, any company – even the company of this cynical, clearly uninterested (yes, yes, delicious-looking) man. Of course it is not the first time I’ve wanted the company of this sort of man, although this time it’s different. This time I’m not looking at the cynical, clearly uninterested (delicious-looking) man and pretending he is delightful so that I can start some sort of fantasy about dating him, falling in love with him and then ultimately (obviously) marrying him. I don’t need that fantasy any more. I now know why it hasn’t ever worked out in the past: I am supposed to be with Martin. That’s the whole point of this trip, as I made quite clear to this Dean Taylor. As I wasn’t coming on to him, I really don’t think I should have to endure being insulted by him. I was just being friendly.
I shouldn’t care what he thinks.
I don’t care.
I glare at the barrier between us, giving what I admit is the impression of someone who does care, rather a lot. He has fabulous bone structure. A jawline to die for. I try hard to remember exactly what Martin’s jawline is like, but I’m afraid I can’t. It has been a while. I imagine it was just fine. Is just fine. I have to get back in the habit of thinking about Martin in the present tense again. He’s been very past to me for quite some time. To be clear, my commenting on Dean’s jawline, or any other part of his all-too-hot physique, is simply a matter of aesthetics. Nothing more than if I was in a gallery, say, and I commented that a work of art was interesting, or – let’s face it, a more likely scenario – if I was in Islington High Street and commented on a stunning dress or must-have pair of shoes. I’m not saying I am interested in him in the traditional sense. I’m almost indifferent to him, which is proof of my steadfast commitment to Martin and my plans for an adult future, free of butterflies and lovely loosening in the bit below my stomach that has no decent name.
Almost indifferent.
The truth is, I only spoke to Dean because the moment I had nowhere to mooch or roam, no perfumes, samples or crowds to distract me, I started to feel, well, anxious. Not about the plane crashing or my chances with the oxygen mask and the floating devices if that was the case, but about what I’m doing. What am I doing? The enormity of my undertaking threatens to overwhelm me. I’m travelling four thousand miles to see my ex – an ex who up until this morning I had not spoken to once in five years – to try to persuade him not to marry his fiancée.
It’s impetuous, it’s insane.
It’s also romantic and thrilling and possible. Isn’t it? Either way, it’s mostly just very, very scary. I’ve drunk too much champagne already and I can’t quite remember what Martin said on the phone. Was he flirtatious and encouraging? Or was he simply being polite?
So this Dean bloke thinks I’m a selfish cow. Ow. Hurtful. Well, he’s wrong. He really is. Miles off. I’m not selfish, but how can I explain? How can I admit to being something far more terrible?
Lonely. I’m a bit lonely. Well, more than a bit.
I’m desolately lonely.
How pathetic is that? Who admits to that? No one. But I am. Fact is, I am fed up of being alone. Of course I am travelling alone, but I feel alone in a much wider and more profound context than that. Not just yesterday when I woke up in a show home with a married man who didn’t know my name, or today when I wandered aimlessly around the airport watching other people greet their loved ones. Truthfully, I’ve felt alone for quite some time now. It’s not something I’m going to shout about, is it? How unattractive would that be? How embarrassing? It would be easier to talk about my various lovers hunting for the elusive G spot than admit to being lonely. But I do feel lonely when I babysit for Lisa (and not just on Valentine’s night, but on bog-standard weeknights too), and when I wander round the supermarket, scouring the aisles and fridges for ready meals for one. I feel it after reading a gripping page-turner or after watching an impactful movie, when I want to discuss plots with someone. Of course I can join a book club, and my friends often come to the movies with me, but still the loneliness seeps into my being. That’s why I am on this plane, I’m trying to build a dam against the loneliness. That’s why I confided in Dean Taylor. I just wanted him to distract me on this flight to Chicago. I just want some company for a few hours. Is that too much to ask?
Besides, he’s been giving mixed messages. I’m aware that the newspaper wall and, well, the actual partition wall that he put between us indicates that he really doesn’t want to talk, but the humorous way he responded to my initial questions implied the opposite. I thought he’d also appreciate some company, that he was probably simply too shy to say so.
And he listened to my story so acutely, with such rapt interest, and that was, frankly, a refreshing change. Whenever I talk about Martin, or any of my boyfriends, come to that, I’m used to my friends and relatives butting in and contradicting me or exasperating me with conflicting theories and viewpoints. Dean’s silence lifted me. When I got to the end of my tale, I fully expected him to shake my hand and congratulate me on my single-minded, uber-romantic pursuit.
He called me a selfish cow.
That’s damn rude, isn’t it? What right does he have to judge me? I didn’t ask him to comment.
Only I did, of course, by opening up and sharing my intimate thoughts and history; he was bound to think I was inviting comment. I shouldn’t have trusted him just because the way he chews his fingernails is somehow attractive and vulnerable, just because he was decent about me spilling champagne down his shirt and trousers. Those things don’t necessarily mean he’s a good guy. I ought to have guessed he’d be egotistical, sexist, brutal. That he’d only see the situation from his own privileged point of view. What could this beautiful man possibly understand about loneliness or desperation or disappointment?
Suddenly I’m parched; three (or four? more?) glasses of champagne can do that to a girl. I wave down the flight attendant again, and he looks relieved when I ask for water. I quickly glug back two glasses in a row before asking if I can keep the litre bottle. I’m bitterly regretting talking to Dean Taylor at all now. I should’ve been having a ball on this flight, a free upgrade on my way to reclaim the love of my life: what’s not to enjoy? But he’s spoilt it. He called me a selfish cow. I’m not a cow. I’m not selfish. I’m just trying to make a life. I stare at my hands and count to a hundred three or four times; it seems preferable to thinking.
I’m given a champagne refill and a menu; I realise I’m supposed to decide between the impressive choices of pan-roasted pork belly with caramelised apples, roast sea bass fillet with braised fennel and Hereford cattle steak with a cognac peppercorn sauce, but I’m overwhelmed and unable to make a decision. It’s probably just because I’m so used to the more mundane choice of chicken or beef. I pick something, and when it arrives it looks delicious; even the wholewheat bread rolls and the chocolate truffles that nestle on my tray are amazing, but somehow I can’t manage more than a couple of mouthfuls of the entire meal. I consider watching a film; there’s an enormous choice, but I doubt my ability to follow a plot.
I glare at the partition between me and Dean. I hope he can feel my loathing through the plastic.
I am right about going to Martin. I’m sure I am. I’m not going to hurt him, or humiliate him. I’m not trying to spoil the best day of his life. I’ll give him other happy days. Better days. I will.
Painfully, the memory breaks down the door and barges into my consciousness; I’ve done my best to lock it out for years, but now the recollection is callous and sharp and insists on being present. That cold, bright March evening when I called off our wedding suddenly feels real and large again. I can smell the leaf buds in the air and feel the breeze wrap around my fingers and cheekbones.
I told Mum and Dad that I
wanted to call it off before I told Martin. I blurted it out to them following a dress fitting, while we were all sitting in the sunroom in their home in Wimbledon enjoying a glass of wine. Way to ruin the mood. I’d thought – hoped – that once I told my parents, that would be the worst of it over. I’d expected my mother to be a little bit hysterical about the etiquette of cancelling a wedding, and a little bit regretful that she’d been cheated out of the opportunity of wearing her oyster-coloured dress coat and hat, but I’d also expected understanding, perhaps even indulgence.
‘How did Martin take it?’ Dad had asked.
‘I haven’t told him yet. I hoped you might. I thought it would be better coming from you. Man to man,’ I’d explained. I looked up and noted that my parents were wearing identical expressions: disbelief mixed with frustration.
‘Where is he now?’ Dad had wanted to know.
‘Playing football with the guys from work. I’m supposed to meet him at the local.’
‘Get your coat, I’ll drive you there.’
It was awful. Truly the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Martin immediately guessed something was up when he saw me emerge from Dad’s car. He probably imagined that the florist had said she wouldn’t be able to source calla lilies, or some other ‘disaster’ on a similar scale. I’d got into the habit of relaying ‘disasters’ to Martin on a regular basis in the run-up to the wedding; the seating arrangement, the photographer’s vision and the search for bridesmaids’ shoes had all been disastrous.
But then, on that fresh spring night, with the stench of mud and sweat still clinging to his well-exercised body, he learnt what a real disaster was.
A disaster was being told by your fiancée that she didn’t love you. At least, not enough. You weren’t enough. You weren’t the One. He’d cried, pleaded, told me it was nerves; eventually he got angry and told me I was a stupid, pathetic effing bitch who didn’t know what she wanted. Then he’d apologised for that and cried again. Dad had driven him back to our flat, a home that I’d relinquished; I caught the tube back to Wimbledon.
‘You’ll regret this; you’ve just made a big mistake,’ Martin had snarled, mud and anger smeared all over him.
Truthfully, he had looked very much like a ruined and humiliated man. How could Dean have known? I’ve managed to lock out this memory for so long, smothering it below a certainty that I did the right thing, that calling off the wedding – however disappointing for everyone involved – was justified because I didn’t love Martin enough to make us both happy. I see now that I placed far too much emphasis on the chemistry, or rather lack of it, but I’ve come to understand that I was wrong about that, and so calling off his next wedding, to explain as much, is justified too.
Isn’t it?
My lungs suddenly feel painfully full. I’m drowning in self-doubt. Shame and confusion begin to rush at me from both sides and I feel perhaps I might be crushed under their weight. I unbuckle my seat belt, stand up shakily and head for the loo, bumping into two passengers as I do so; both collisions elicit irritated looks. I know everyone in the cabin hates me, but I need to stretch my legs and splash water on my face. Repeatedly counting to a hundred isn’t enough.
I don’t notice that Dean is already in the galley until I am standing outside the toilet door. He has his back to me, half-heartedly rummaging through a basket of goodies that are available for passengers to graze on, poring over the confectionery, biscuits and fruit. He doesn’t seem that committed to picking out a snack; he has the air of a man who is more mooching than scavenging. I stare up at the illuminated light that announces that the loo is engaged as though it’s a death sentence. It will look strange to turn around and go back to my seat, so instead I pray that the loo will become free before Dean makes a decision between crisps and chocolate and then he won’t notice me. But the universe is against me; it often is. Just as I’m praying that he won’t turn around, he does exactly that. The only way back to his seat is squeezing past me.
‘Excuse me,’ he says stiffly.
I move my body an inch, but my reluctance to be accommodating means that as he moves past, his elbow nudges up against my breast. I feel it as clearly as a kiss; a rare illuminated moment that sends a taut shudder through my being. It settles low in my gut, startling and confusing me. I don’t like this man. He’s insulted me. Hurt me. And yet I’m grown-up enough to know when raw sexual energy has suddenly commandeered the situation.
Boom.
This is exactly what I’ve just been talking about. What I’ve just been saying isn’t particularly important. And it isn’t. It isn’t.
It just feels as though it is.
A delicious heat and thrilling tension pulses through my body. I find my gaze is drawn to his lips, his nostrils, his ears. I want to nibble, bite and suck, in no particular order. Get a grip. Get a room.
Which is it to be?
I glance furtively at Dean’s face, forcing myself to look him in the eye. I wonder if he felt it too. He looks shocked and embarrassed, suggesting he did. I am abruptly aware that up here, with nothing surrounding us other than immeasurable amounts of sky and space, there is definitely nowhere to go.
Will he go back to his seat? Will he say anything more? Can we pretend that didn’t happen? What I’ve just felt is simply to do with the altitude, right? And the champagne. The two combined. Lethal. I can’t be attracted to Dean. Not because he isn’t attractive – we’ve already established that he is, quite especially so – but as I’ve just worked out that Martin is my One, then other men should not be popping up on my radar, let alone reducing me to a quaking wreck. I hope Dean walks on by. Returns to his seat and says absolutely nothing more to me, ever.
Or the opposite.
Whatever.
With a sigh and, frankly, what seems like reluctance, he turns to me. ‘Are you enjoying the flight?’ His breath is warm and foggy. I feel it land on me and I am oddly eased by the intimacy, rather than revolted by it. Annoyingly, I’m ambushed by an image of waking up beside him in bed after a night of raw passion. I shake my head. This will not do.
‘No, not really,’ I admit. I’m not sure he’s going to ask why, so I tell him anyway. ‘You’ve upset me.’
‘I see.’
‘I couldn’t enjoy my lunch. Free food. Free delicious food. And you ruined it for me.’
‘Right.’
‘You shouldn’t judge. You don’t know me. You can’t possibly understand my situation. I am not making a mistake.’
Dean closes his eyes and massages the back of his neck. ‘We should judge one another. It stops us becoming animals. The pressure of failing in the eyes of society passes for some sort of morality.’ He pauses, as though he’s weighing up whether it’s worth the effort. ‘And you are making a mistake,’ he sighs.
I want to say something cutting, or better yet, something considered, because I am secretly impressed with his argument. Has he been thinking about that, or did it just come to him? However, the loo door swings open and an extremely tall and hefty guy emerges, practically knocking us over with his bulk. Dean and I do a little dance to avoid any further bodily contact. I really can’t handle another jolt. I’m still trying to convince myself that the first one was static or something; I don’t want to deal with evidence to the contrary. Plus, I’m aware of the hideous smell of an overused communal loo, and illogically, I feel embarrassed to be so close to Dean, who must also be able to smell the staleness. It isn’t my pong, but it bothers me. Flustered, I can’t think of anything funnier or more challenging than a slightly childish jibe: ‘And I bet you’ve never made a mistake in your life. I bet you are perfect.’ With that I turn on my heel.
Standing inside the toilet cubicle, with the shockingly bright light glaring down on me, I wish that I’d brought my make-up bag in here too. I’d like to freshen up. I’m not trying to impress Dean; it isn’t that I want to look my best for him, but I don’t want to look my worst either, and I am pretty close to that right now. I look shock
ingly pale, any natural colour washed off by the high altitude and recycled air. My eyes are red and my skin is puffy. I splash water on my face and then roughly rub at the smudged mascara that frames my eyes. I pinch my cheeks as though I am some Edwardian debutante at a coming-out ball, and then I tut at myself for my idiocy. It really doesn’t matter how I look now. When I get to Chicago I can have a facial, go to a department store and get someone to do my make-up. I might even treat myself to a blow-dry. By the time I see Martin, I’ll look better. That’s what counts.
Still, I pull my fingers through my hair.
17
Clara
Clara had simply handed the letter to Tim by way of explanation. They were not in the habit of keeping secrets from one another. There were too many other people to keep secrets from; it was exhausting. So long ago, once they had understood everything about one another, they had decided that honesty was the only policy that could exist between them. Not that they ever divulged anything grubby and explicit, no details; they drew a veil, but they never lied or withheld.
Tim had taken the letter from her. His first thought had been that the paper was flimsy and cheap. Quite unlike anything any of their friends might send. Their friends were stylish and competitive. Even a thank-you note or an invite had to be doused in thought and oozing investment; it wasn’t enough to tear out an A4 sheet of lined paper from a pad bought on the high street. He’d sighed and assumed he was being handed a blackmail letter.
Dear Clara,
Here it is: the proverbial blast from the past. Sorry to open a long-dead correspondence with a cliché, but I find my options are limited. Apologies for bothering you at all actually, because who needs that, hey? Few of us. Most of us – myself included – usually prefer the past to stay exactly where we left it, but – all that said – I found I had to write. I wanted to, and as you know, I’ve always tended to do as I want. There’s no pretty way to say this, so I’ll just get to it. I’m dying. Sorry, again, for the bluntness. Bloody hell, I’ve apologised to you three times in one short paragraph. I bet that’s more often than I’ve apologised to any woman cumulatively in my entire life.