by Freya North
‘Sure,’ said Zac, ‘why not. Cup of tea?’
‘OK,’ said Pip and went to her kitchen.
She stared at the kettle without filling it or boiling it or seeing it at all, really. Her focus was elsewhere entirely.
My God. For the first time ever, I wish I could phone someone. I want to tell Megan ‘He’s in my house, I’m making tea!’, I want to phone Fen and say ‘I look a right state – what should I prioritize, hair or socks?’. I’d love to text Cat: fuck! z here! wot i do??
But you can’t because your phone is charging in the sitting-room.
I know he’s only just come, but I almost can’t wait for him to go so I can start phoning!
Don’t worry about your socks. Just make the tea. Add a plate with a couple of KitKats. The hair-slide is indeed on top of the fridge – you can do a little surreptitious hairstyling in the reflection cast by your kitchen window.
When Pip returned with the tea tray, she found Zac looking most at home, relaxed into the sofa, flicking through Livingetc. She was struck by the memory of sitting next to him there, a couple of months ago, asking him if he liked her tights, him liking her knees, them kissing. The way he left, that he then returned. And found her topless. And all the fantastic heavy petting before they went to bed. And he stayed the whole night through.
‘Tea,’ Pip announced, looking concertedly at her newly decorated walls because Zac didn’t seem to be.
‘Ta,’ said Zac.
They sipped politely, darted little smiles to one another, took delicate nibbles along the length of the KitKat fingers and enquired courteously about each other’s work.
‘St Bea’s today?’ Zac asked. ‘A toughie?’
‘Actually,’ said Pip, ‘it was one of those sessions where it was infinitely rewarding. Sometimes, being a clown doctor is emotionally draining because it’s an occupational obligation to keep the smile and the bounce and the laughter when you’d rather sit still and alone and cry. Today, though, I was in the privileged company of such bravery and dignity and beautiful humour that it was truly inspirational. I felt carried along – I felt sustained by them.’
‘You’re amazing,’ Zac marvelled.
‘Nonsense,’ Pip brushed away and meant it and Zac thought her all the more amazing for it. ‘Anyway,’ she said, keen to change the subject – she could talk about her work all night, but compliments she found awkward to handle – ‘how about you? Lots of sums?’
Zac groaned. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it’s a fucking nightmare. Recently, we were soaring – as a company, but even more so as a department. Suddenly – for reasons I’m not going to bore you with – the bonuses look like not happening, we seem set to lose a major client and morale amongst my lot is disintegrating before my eyes.’
Pip wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She paused and thought how lame and formulaic that sounded. So she then said what really occurred to her. ‘It must be tough for you – because I suppose your staff see you swivelling in your chair in your own office and they wonder if you’re with them or just after your own gains.’
‘God, Pip,’ said Zac, ‘that’s precisely it. I’m under scrutiny by my superiors and my juniors. No one seems to have faith in my conviction. Honestly, the intricacies of the deal just fade into insignificance alongside the team morale which has been undermined. I’d rather have my team back in spirit, than a windfall in my bank account.’
‘So you swivel in your chair, racking your brains how to make things work for them, on their behalf, but they see you swivelling and presume you’re protected and don’t care?’
‘Yes,’ Zac sighed, ‘it’s so enervating. There’s fuck all I can do. It’s out of my hands.’
Pip hummed in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner.
‘I’d better go,’ Zac said, placing his cup and saucer carefully on the coffee-table. ‘I have work to do. Thanks for the tea.’
‘Pleasure,’ said Pip, clattering her china a little and rising hastily. ‘It was nice of you to pop by.’
They were suddenly both acutely aware that Zac hadn’t, in fact, gone to the loo. And to do so now would be all the more conspicuous. So they stood and smiled a little uneasily and Zac did a lot of that gathering-stuff-together-to-leave muttering. Actually, all he had to collect was his Evening Standard and his jacket. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘keep in touch.’
‘You too, Zac,’ Pip said, ‘you too.’ The formality between them was so pronounced she half-wondered if they were about to shake hands. She paused and cast her gaze downwards. Zac’s footwear. She wondered if it was incongruous for a man in soft suede boots the colour of caramel to be an accountant. Shouldn’t he be in sensible brogues or slimy slip-ons or naff Nature Treks? But she’d always known there was more to Zac Holmes than met the eye – and she knew it was her own fault that it had taken until so recently for her to see it. ‘Um,’ she faltered. ‘Sorry about Sunday,’ she mumbled.
‘Sorry?’ Zac repeated as if he didn’t understand.
‘Just turning up like that. No warning. You had company.’
‘Don’t apologize,’ Zac said. ‘I’m just sorry you didn’t stay for tea.’
‘You had company,’ Pip reiterated.
I’m sorry I had company, Zac remarked to himself, I wish I hadn’t.
I wish you had said that out loud because your silence has demoralized Pip.
Pip had her hand on the latch when the doorbell chimed. ‘Shit,’ she said, ‘I bet it’s the dodgy duster urchins.’
‘Here,’ said Zac, ‘allow me.’ He talked amiably to the scruff peddling crap and had soon parted with five pounds, and found himself with a lifetime’s supply of counterfeit J-Cloths. Pip wanted him to stay – for supper, for another cup of tea, for another five minutes. But she couldn’t find the words to ask. So she said nothing. So Zac made his exit. He climbed the steps up from her basement to the pavement. He looked back down on her, framed in the doorway, the light behind her bestowing an incongruous halo. Her hair was a mess. Her socks were odd. Her jeans weren’t that becoming.
‘Bye,’ he said.
‘Bye,’ she said. He walked out on to the street and she watched him go.
Just as he was about to pass beyond the boundary of her building, just as she was about to shut her front door, he stopped and leant over the railings.
‘Pip,’ he called down, ‘what’s a cupcake?’
‘It’s a little sponge cake baked in those corrugated paper cases,’ she said artlessly, ‘like at kids’ parties. Like Tom likes. Sometimes, with icing and hundreds and thousands or jelly shapes. Like June made.’
‘Oh,’ Zac said, ‘thought so. Cheerio.’
‘Ta-ta,’ said Pip.
Perhaps you oughtn’t to have asked what but why, Zac.
Perhaps you oughtn’t to have been so literal, Pip.
She closed the door and immediately felt desperately lonely. And rather pathetic. Her flat seemed huge to her. She felt diminished. Out of her depth. Surrounded by the strident colours of walls and skirting-boards, it was like being in some Lewis Carroll scene. Nothing was labelled ‘Drink Me’. Just two empty teacups.
He didn’t notice. He didn’t notice the colour.
But he didn’t use the loo, either, Pip.
Sometimes, you have to point out the most obvious things to a person. They know something’s different, something’s changed, but they just can’t quite put their finger on what.
Juliana phoned Zac just as he was turning into his street.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi.’
‘You OK?’
‘Sure, you?’
‘Fine.’
There was a pause. Zac sent a vibe down the phone that he hoped would load the silence, which in turn would say more than speech.
‘About tomorrow night,’ said Juliana, as if she’d been listening intently.
‘What about tomorrow?’ said Zac.
‘I’m going to cancel,’
said Juliana.
‘That’s fine,’ said Zac.
‘I’m going home in three weeks,’ said Juliana.
‘Right,’ said Zac.
‘There’s stuff I want to do before then,’ said Juliana, ‘and other stuff I feel I’ve done enough of.’
Zac read between the lines, looked up into the indigo sky of the October evening and thanked his lucky stars.
‘Zac?’ said Juliana.
‘I’m here,’ said Zac. ‘I understand,’ said Zac. ‘I agree,’ said Zac.
‘Cool,’ said Juliana. ‘I may see you, though, before I go. I may organize a goodbye drinks.’
‘Sure,’ said Zac, knowing he’d be busy.
‘Right,’ said Juliana, ‘good.’
‘Good luck,’ said Zac. ‘Have fun – and take care.’
She was touched. She hadn’t actually thought about wishing him well, or having him take care.
‘No hard feelings, hey, Zac?’
‘None whatsoever, Juliana.’
When Zac entered his flat, he was flooded with a wave of relief. He pressed his back against his front door and slithered down, squatting with his eyes closed and his arms lolling over his knees. He could either fall asleep or he could jump for joy – just then, he couldn’t decide which so he continued to sit and appreciate the stillness of his flat and the sense of calm that one phone call had reinstated in his life. Juliana had spared him the task he’d been putting off. Oddly, it made him feel more fondly towards her now than at any other time in their brief history. It also made him realize how he’d never actually been fond of her – just fancied her and took advantage of what she had on offer. Crucially, he understood that the same went for her and he didn’t mind in the least. Whatever it was that they’d had, or shared, or taken, it had been equal and balanced on both sides. They’d used but they hadn’t abused. Ultimately, they’d simply used it all up.
Thank God, though, that she pipped me to the post. Even though, deep down, I knew she wouldn’t have been upset or even particularly have cared if I’d instigated it, I really didn’t relish the task of ending things.
Zac rose. He slipped his boots off and stuffed a scrunch of yesterday’s newspaper into each, as they were still damp from lunch-time’s freak downpour. Today was one of those rare days that Zac actually rather envied the colleagues who wore suits and stiff-collared shirts to work. At least it meant they had something work specific to physically shrug off when they arrived home. Zac, though, could only change from one pair of Gap navy trousers into another, slip out of one casual shirt and pull on a similar one, albeit in a different hue.
I wonder if many blokes actually envy me? I guess most guys my age are either resolutely single or else safely married. I don’t really fall into either category, on account of Tom. I suppose I ought to get used to the fact that this is how my life will be – dalliances here, solitude there. The one constant being Tom. And if that’s the case then shouldn’t it be me who is envied the world over?
The phone rang. Zac wondered if it was Juliana with a change of mind. In which case he’d let it ring. But it was more likely to be work related. He ought to answer it.
It was Ruth. With a selection of things to do and nights to do them on.
‘Thursday sounds good,’ Zac told her because he really didn’t fancy some art opening tomorrow night.
‘Great,’ said Ruth. ‘Shall I book a table for four for dinner afterwards?’
‘Juliana won’t be coming,’ Zac told her, conversationally.
‘Oh?’ said Ruth, physically pressing the receiver closer to her ear in her curiosity. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Very,’ Zac assured her, ‘we’re just not a –’ he paused. How on earth could he categorize what on earth he and Juliana had been? We’re not two people who sleep together any more? We’re not having our casual dalliance any longer? We don’t really give a flying fuck about seeing each other again? ‘Well,’ said Zac, ‘Juliana won’t be accompanying me to things any more. Run its course, you could say.’
Ruth was so stunned and delighted that she shut her mouth for fear of emitting an excitable squeak, being all she was capable of. She felt if she were to do so, Zac might well see it as her taking credit for the state of his affair. And then he might change his mind. And ask Juliana to take him back. No. Ruth had brought him this far, she wasn’t going to allow him even a pigeon tiptoe backwards.
‘But I’m still on for Thursday,’ Zac carried on regardless, ‘as long as you didn’t have some kind of couples-symmetry dynamic in mind.’
Ruth laughed. ‘Not at all,’ she said, though she’d much rather say ‘Not a moment too soon’ and pry. ‘It’ll be great to see you.’ She was desperate for details. ‘Are you cool about things?’
‘God, yes!’ Zac assured her.
‘OK,’ said Ruth cautiously whilst she thought what else to say, ‘OK.’ She craved a post-mortem. ‘There didn’t seem much of a connection,’ she defined, sagely and subtly, ‘between you and Juliana.’
‘You’re right,’ said Zac, ‘that’s why it’s no big deal at all.’
‘How did Juliana take it?’ Ruth asked.
‘Oh,’ said Zac very openly, ‘it was Juliana who did the dumping.’
Ruth was so staggered, so supremely disappointed, so taken off her guard, that she had to stop herself from shouting ‘No no no! That wasn’t the idea! You were to do the chucking! It was all planned to perfection. Damn! What went wrong?’
‘Anyway,’ Zac continued, ‘I’ll see you on Thursday?’
‘Sure,’ Ruth managed eventually. She knew Zac better than to rummage for further information right at that moment. ‘Damn!’ she murmured, hanging up. ‘Bollocks.’ Billy glanced up. ‘Mummy just said a naughty word,’ she told him, thinking to herself that she could say a lot worse, ‘naughty Mummy.’ She dialled June, continuing to murmur ‘naughty, naughty Mummy’ absent-mindedly under her breath. Billy, however, whose vocabulary had been honed in Holloway playgrounds, was neither shocked nor impressed. He went to find his father to play PlayStation. The two of them always had a good and justified cuss at the screen.
‘Bollocks,’ Ruth cursed down the phone to June, her hand cupped over the mouthpiece lest Billy was still in earshot, ‘you’ll never guess what’s bloody happened.’
Zac had no desire to contemplate Juliana – what it had all meant, if it had meant anything at all. After all, if he had time to think about Juliana, he most certainly had time to think about work and that’s where his priorities should lie. Thus Zac really didn’t have the time or the space to think about Pip either. It was enough that he had indulged himself in the impromptu detour on his journey home. Now, though, he couldn’t really figure out why he had turned up. Actually, he couldn’t quite believe he’d turned up at her flat at all. It would take him too long to wonder why on earth he’d done it. Currently, he didn’t have time to think why. There was work to be done. Out came his laptop and on came his frown.
It seemed like only minutes later that the phone rang. However, glancing at the clock revealed that it was actually nearing midnight now. It could well be work calling. He ought to answer it.
‘It’s a term of affection,’ Ruth’s voice declared, dispensing with even a ‘hi’ to announce herself.
‘What is?’ Zac said, shutting down the laptop and settling back for an indulgent late-night chat with his sister-in-law.
‘Cupcake is,’ Ruth explained proudly, as if she’d thoroughly researched it on Zac’s behalf in her every spare moment since the theatre bar the previous night.
‘Oh,’ said Zac, suddenly losing the impetus for the chat and instead feeling just enormously fatigued.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Pip felt thoroughly confused by it all. Though it had been a wonderful surprise to see Zac – and though she was keen to read excessively into every second of his visit, every gesture, every short sentence – ultimately, she wasn’t quite sure why he’d come. Certainly, he hadn’t popped by to use her loo.
Mind you, nor had she when she turned up at his last Sunday. She wondered how she could wonder what was going on when her overriding instinct was that there wasn’t anything going on at all. How could there be? After all this time? After all that had gone before? After all, he’d hardly been alone on Sunday. Perhaps she should be satisfied with a friendship based on cups of tea and the lavatory. She knew for sure that she didn’t want to lose Zac Holmes from her life. She thought he was great. More than great. So, even if she couldn’t have all of him, should she settle for just a part?
She also felt confused by how unsatisfactory it had been to share the sparse details over the phone with Megan and Fen. They’d listened and cooed but they could read no more meaning into his visit than she could. She didn’t want to hear Fen reason ‘He was on the wrong tube and needed the loo.’ It was far too sensible and prosaic. She wasn’t happy with Megan for saying ‘See! He obviously thinks of you as his pal, too’ when Pip had told her she wanted him as more than a pal. If they weren’t going to say what she wanted to hear, what was the point of her confiding? Texting Cat, who was in Paris for the launch conference of the following summer’s Tour de France, was equally frustrating. Her sister was obviously so enthralled to be back in the fold of the Lycra-lad fraternity, and back in the arms of her doctor beau, that Pip’s long texts were responded to with the scantiest of abbreviated encouragements.
She went to bed feeling glum, goading herself that there was something rather pathetic about still feeling there was something she could do. However, if Zac’s persistence early on hadn’t worked on her, how could she possibly expect, at this late stage, with all that had gone before, that any persistence on her part could sway him?
I’m not going to phone, I’m not going to phone, I’m not going to phone.
How often had Pip forced her friends and sisters to chant those words? ‘Don’t you dare phone him!’ she would tell them. ‘And if you feel you’re going to, for Christ’s sake, phone me first!’ And though they’d trust her reasons and could see sense, they obeyed only during daylight hours or when in her company. The lure was too great. Sure enough, Pip would be contacted at some point and they’d admit ever so meekly that they had, in fact, phoned. And how they wished they hadn’t. And help, what could they do?