It was quite late by the time I got back to my flat in Fulham, but I found it hard to get off to sleep. I checked my email to find message from James - sent, I worked out, on the night he’d returned to London. It wasn’t flowery, it just said how nice it had all been, and would I meet him once I was back? I replied, by the end of that week we were having dinner in Covent Garden.
I’d always found dating in London fraught with difficulty; a constant battle to present only the good side of myself. Yet with James things were always different, perhaps because we had Naviras as recourse, a common shared interest. I could relax because James had first met me hungover with scraggly hair and no make-up on, still it hadn’t mattered. It took almost all of the neurosis out of getting ready for our meets. We had other things in common – both middle class, although James proudly described himself as ‘working-middle class’. The fact neither of us had brothers or sisters may have been a critical thing although I’m not sure exactly why. Certainly both of us were good at keeping our own counsel, not needing to share things with anybody.
I still found myself struggling to get even interviews for pupilages but at the time didn’t really care; I probably failed to take the applications seriously because I was too obsessed with James. I thought it was love; actually it was something else, infatuation most likely. He was certainly the most interesting person I’d met in a long time, and he introduced me to a world far more engaging than law, more colourful and controversial.
Two months after we returned from Naviras he was promoted to deputy head of the Tory research department and was eyeing up a few constituencies, even though the one he really wanted was his home seat in Eppingham. He’d made good on his threat to distance himself from many of his old university friends. ‘Feckless under-achievers,’ as he described them. We were taking steps into our respective new worlds together, Rav saying that having me in his life gave him a newfound confidence. For my part I was delighted, this was the first man I’d met with whom I could see a real future. Just the possibility of that was a tonic.
I knew Gail was a bit disappointed at my dating him, she never said it to my face but it got back to me through a mutual friend. She’s just worried about you, thinks you could do better. I had to laugh; men had hardly been queuing up outside my flat brandishing posies before. My father on the other hand seemed pleased I was dating with a man like James, a man with prospects. That didn’t stop me from being nervous ahead of their first meeting, though. Dad and I went to see a matinee in the West End one Saturday, something we did about four times a year. It was normal for us to go for a drink afterwards, unfortunately as we watched the play I could smell that Dad had already been imbibing earlier in the day.
I suppose that postcard I’d picked up in Naviras had been meant for Dad, but once it had languished in my luggage all the way to Seville and then back to London there seemed no point sending it. But then I never got round to giving it to him either, he’d ended up with some Spanish brandy picked up in the airport for a souvenir. It’s hard to know what to do, when someone’s only obvious pleasure is alcohol; I bought it for him despite my concerns.
After the play we sat in a touristy cocktail bar in the West End. James was late and I felt so conflicted, worried he wouldn’t show up but almost wishing he wouldn’t at the same time. Dad was tucking into a bourbon on the rocks, I was worried he’d be inebriated by the time James appeared. When he finally showed up he got on well with Dad straight away. James did most of the talking; mostly about politics but not in a boring way, he described his brushes with former prime ministers – ‘He obviously didn’t like my shoes…’ – and some of the Cabinet – ‘Clearly still carrying on behind his wife’s back…’
Dad seemed transfixed, and although James politely asked him about his work Dad always seemed to want to talk more about politics. The two of them had rugby in common, too, as well as a love of red wine and bourbon. Everything seemed to slot in so nicely, a new feeling for me. At the time Dad had been concerned that I was failing to advance my career, but stopped prying about it once he’d met James. I think Dad saw the possibility of grandchildren, a reversal in our family’s emotional fortunes. Who could begrudge him that?
After a few months of dating it became obvious that James was hardly ever sleeping in his own flat. The crunch came just after Christmas, when unfortunately James’s live-in landlord lost his phone and all the contacts inside it. He became concerned when James didn’t come home for two weeks straight and called the police, who then called James’s parents. It was a funny but salutary experience, and since I still couldn’t find gainful employment and was starting to worry about eating into Mum’s money, the next step seemed practical, as much as anything else.
We rented a place together near Gloucester Road tube station, handy for both of us work-wise. It was trying at times, both of us adjusting to each other’s habits as all couples have to. I was still out of work, but unwilling to go back to being a solicitor. It would’ve meant admitting defeat, but more importantly would’ve meant me being effectively disbarred. I kept applying, filling out the gargantuan forms and printing them off, James taking them to work and posting them from there. ‘Saves on stamps,’ he would say.
I kept myself busy - it was hard to be bored in London, after all - but I did feel quite stuck. Doors were not opening for me in the way I’d hoped, and I started to feel ashamed at my unemployment, seeing less of my friends whose careers were all advancing rapidly. I started cooking a lot; big projects that took hours of preparation. Then I enrolled on a cookery course at the local college, all the other women there twice my age. Then I joined a gym and started to put in ten hours a week there. I stopped applying for jobs in chambers, sick of the rejection. Deep down I knew what I was on the verge of becoming, but honestly couldn’t see a way out of it.
A few months into that existence I explained my worries to Gail over dinner when James was at the Tory conference and we had the flat to ourselves. ‘Are you happy, though, Ellie? That’s what counts.’ She’d become hard to meet up with, blaming it on her ridiculous hours in chambers.
‘I am,’ I said, ‘But it does make me feel a bit antiquated. Victorian.’
‘Something’ll come up,’ Gail replied. People were often giving me that stock response.
‘Maybe I should think about doing something different,’ I said.
‘Well, you could easily become a chef, this sea bream’s extraordinary. Reminds me of Portugal. You’re still loaded, right? Why not open a restaurant.’ Gail never resented the fact I had money, but like a few people seemed to think it made me less deserving of sympathy, forgot the price I’d paid for being comfortable.
That period also signalled the start of a pattern of behaviour in James which should have set alarm bells ringing. His appetite for sex had always been higher than mine. Alcohol didn’t suppress it, actually it often amplified it. Once we were living together officially James seemed to become uninhibited, wanting it daily – twice daily, sometimes - and in all manner of ways and places. Against the counter in the kitchen when he came in from work as I was preparing our supper, in the shower cubicle, even suggesting we try it outdoors in Regents Park one Sunday afternoon. I accommodated to a degree – though certainly not in the park - but James increasingly wanted to play rough, try out new things. That just wasn’t me, but my refusal to play along didn’t seem to be a problem for him, not at the time.
I’d discussed this before with my girlfriends, who’d all caught their boyfriends watching something they didn’t want us to see; the laptop lid quickly closed, the stray item of undeleted search history. What was there to do about it? Sometimes they couldn’t fathom how ordinary women didn’t respond in the same way; weren’t being paid to say we liked things. I’d talked about this in the abstract but never discussed the specific and mounting sex-drive disparity with anyone, not even Gail. James never forced anything, sometimes when he’d had a bit to drink and I rebuffed him he’d sulk about it, nothing more. Yet
those early years with James often felt like a constant battle to satisfy him. Should this have been a deal-breaker? Easy to say so in hindsight, but my thinking was that James was in his early thirties, and that his libido would calm down in time.
The following summer I came home one Friday afternoon to find James already there, with a suitcase packed and waiting in the hallway. He told me to pack mine, no time for questions, just enough for the weekend. ‘Don’t forget a swimming costume,’ he’d called from the kitchen as I was upstairs, scrambling through clothes.
He’d hired a limousine to take us to the airport. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going but driving to Heathrow I was hoping it would be Naviras. Drinking champagne at the bar in departures I watched the remaining flights of the day on the board, including one to Lisbon. When it was called for boarding James got up and then I knew for certain. Another limo picked us up from Lisbon airport and drove us down to the village, speeding through the night.
Of course we stayed in Casa Amanhã, Lottie had been pre-briefed and welcomed us with kisses and a huge hug when we rolled our cases across the bumpy gravel driveway. ‘Ell-eee!’ She made it feel like we’d only last clapped eyes on each other a week ago, even though it had been more than a year. ‘I’m afraid there’s nobody to take your bags upstairs, sorry about that. But you’re in room seven, right at the top. And do come downstairs and have some drinks and supper. We’re still open, just about.’
Lottie had gone to some effort with Room Seven. Purple petals had been scattered on the bed, a bottle of champagne was chilling on ice on the little bedside table. Crickets were thrumming in the trees outside. ‘Wow, five star service,’ said James, a bit caustically.
Downstairs over dinner Lottie was a little bit standoffish. Although the restaurant wasn’t busy by any means, she’d given us a table in the furthest corner from the bar. She didn’t take our order herself, getting one of her staff to look after us. After dinner we went back upstairs, and although I was quite tired James wanted to have sex. Maybe it was because it was taking place in Casa Amanhã, but during and after I realised my own libido had diminished in exact inverse proportion to James’s demands for it. He’d made it into a quantifiable thing, judged its quality almost solely on its frequency. Did he notice or care how my eyes were always closed?
When I woke up James wasn’t there but he’d left a note on the table. Meet me at the beach, Jxx. For some reason my hair straighteners weren’t working properly, they wouldn’t get warm enough, and it was obviously going to be a hot day so I dispensed with makeup. I felt a little underdressed as I walked quickly down the stairs and out of the front door of Casa Amanhã, heading down to the sea.
As I came to the slipway I could see James was sitting at a table on the sand, not far from the edge of the ocean. It had come from the beach bar, and was covered in a white tablecloth with a small pink flower in a little vase in the centre. James was wearing new clothes; a pair of white linen trousers and a navy blue short-sleeved shirt.
‘Impressive,’ I said when I was within earshot of him. He stood up.
‘I was wondering how long it’d take you to wake up,’ he said, kissing me. ‘I was worried you’d have a lie-in and I’d be sitting out here all day.’
‘I wouldn’t have done that to you,’ I said, sitting down on the high-backed chair. James didn’t sit, instead he got down on one knee on the sand in front of me. My heart started pounding. He smiled at me, produced the ring from the pocket of his shirt and said:
‘Ellie, You’d make me the happiest man in the world if you’ll say you’ll be my wife.’
I honestly hadn’t been expecting it. It wasn’t uncommon for James to make romantic gestures; flowers sent to the flat, little teddy bears waiting for me on the kitchen counter with a slushy card. I liked all that, came to expect it almost. But this seemed very soon. About a year too soon, by my reckoning. Still I must have only paused for two or three seconds before saying yes. James breathed a little sigh, stood up and pulled me to my feet. He held my hand up and slipped the ring on. As he kissed me I looked into his eyes and I saw triumph.
We drank the champagne and ate caviar which James must’ve ordered in somehow. Then we went for a long walk over the cliff, along the endless path. The sunshine bounced pale yellow off the sea as the tide came in below us. I forgot about my problems and anxieties. James promised to buy a derelict cottage we passed, he’d renovate it into a place where we could grow old together. We took a hundred photos of it, and of my ring, us, the long clouds which curled up at the ends.
Lottie couldn’t have been more neutral about our engagement if she’d tried. Although she’d been an accomplice in the weekend getaway I don’t think she’d expected James to go that far. ‘What a big diamond, sitting there on its own like that,’ she said when I showed her the ring. ‘You’ll have to be careful around my glassware, darling.’
I’d hoped that we’d spend more time in Casa Amanhã, but James had us on a Sunday morning flight back to London. We decided to throw an engagement party the following weekend, hiring out an entire pub near Westminster. It was a fun day and night, the first time all our respective friends were in the same place and everyone seemed to get along surprisingly well.
It was just unfortunate that James had to invite people whom he secretly didn’t like but whom he’d need later on in his career. It made my engagement party more like an office Christmas do in some ways, fraught with politics of all kinds. I was treated to the spectacle of James talking to Gilly Caulfield, who at the time was an MP’s researcher. Far too young to be wearing twin-set and pearls, Gilly’s idea of a good time back then would’ve involved unleashing beagles to tear apart illegal immigrants. ‘Vile girl,’ said James in my ear after she floated off to talk to someone else.
He had more time for people like Hugo Manwaring and Rob Kitchener, both affable and obviously bright. They were also working either in Parliament or Whitehall, and would rise in tandem with James over the years. I didn’t foresee these people sitting around a Cabinet table together a decade later, at least not all of them. Rav was there, of course, the life and soul of the party but still unaccountably single, and still failing to get selected for a seat. We’d become quite good friends by that point, not least because we were both finding ourselves constantly thwarted.
That night should have sounded another warning bell because it was also the first time I met Rosie. Incredible that James had managed to keep her from me for nearly a year, given how tightly-knit they all were in Tory central office. She came up to me when I was recharging people’s glasses at the crowded bar. I’d seen her earlier, pencil thin and wearing a stunning black dress with green corsages off the shoulders.
‘It’s fantastic to meet you, finally,’ her soft voice had always been oddly classless. ‘Do you need a hand?’ She introduced herself, trying to gauge how much I knew about her already. ‘Well I’m glad James has met someone who’s not in the party,’ she said. ‘I think it’s better, don’t you?’ She didn’t give me a chance to answer before carrying on. ‘Just so you know, my time with James was very brief and work got in the way of it.’
I tried not to appear stunned, said nothing.
‘It’d be great to get to know you, not to talk about that, of course!’ She said this with a sort-of purr. I must have been floundering.
‘I’d really like that, Rosie. Maybe you could come round for dinner.’
‘Oh yes, I’d love that! I’ve heard about your legendary Portuguese suppers,’ she smiled. It felt like a complete demolition of my understanding of myself and the world I was about to go into. ‘You know I must go to Portugal,’ Rosie often talked about things she felt she ought to do. ‘I just can’t believe James met his future wife so randomly like that, out there. It’s good, it’s positive.’
The barman had finished pouring. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go and drop these off,’ I said, feeling like Rosie had just hit me in the face. ‘We’ll be upstairs, come and join us,’ I really took n
o interest in whether she would follow me, mercifully she gave me five minutes to regroup my brain before coming up.
‘I just met your colleague Rosie,’ I said to James. My face said the rest.
‘Ah, yeah,’ he winced. ‘Always been a tricky to raise, that one.’ He looked sheepish.
‘It’s fine, but it would have been nice to know before I’d met her, that’s all.’ I was surprised that someone like James would stage-manage this so badly.
‘I know. But look, it was all over long before I met you, we’d only been together for a few months, she’s a great girl but…’ He didn’t finish.
Later I was angry at James for allowing me to be so humiliated, for ensuring that I’d always feel at a disadvantage with Rosie. James insisted that she had a funny way of dealing with people and didn’t make friends easily. Some people thought she was borderline Asperger’s, he said.
‘Was that why you split up with her?’ I asked.
‘Who said it was me who did the dumping?’ James replied quietly.
‘What on earth is she doing in press relations, if she’s so socially backward?’ Variations on that question would chew me up for years to come, because Rosie had always struck me as the most over-promoted person I’d ever met. It wasn’t that she didn’t work hard, far from it. She was famous for being at her desk at 7am every weekday, long before any of her colleagues got in. In fairness to James she didn’t fraternise much with the rest of the central office staff, would always be on the tube home by 9pm so she could read the next day’s papers. No, my problem with Rosie was that she didn’t seem to live and breathe politics like James and his set. This made her seem amateurish, her with self-righteous smugness only accentuating her mediocrity. I never once heard her speak about policies with anything more than a surface level of interest or conviction.
Weeks in Naviras Page 11