Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

‘Of course.’

  ‘She was a close friend of mine. Although I never really liked her.’

  Chris is drinking when I make this observation and he splutters his wine as he laughs. ‘That sort of female friendship. I see.’

  I have the good grace to grin and then I try to explain. ‘She was a friend of my sister’s, really. Someone in our gang. She used to have Christmas lunch at our house but I’ve always found her intimidating. Everyone does. She’s beautiful, wealthy, well connected and clever.’

  ‘Sounds awful,’mumbles Chris.

  I smile that he’s generous enough to joke. Most men would have asked for her telephone number. ‘Once she decided she wanted him I guess it was inevitable. Just a matter of time.’

  ‘You blame it all on her.’

  ‘No, I blame him too. I think he’s a spineless, opportunistic, selfish bastard.’

  I cannot believe I have just said that. It’s so against the party line. When Peter first left everyone was angry with him. I couldn’t bear to hear the things people wanted to say about him. I excused Peter. I said that he was better suited to Lucy and that I was wrong for him. I’ve always tried to be fair and nice. But God, it’s such a strain. I find describing him in such derogatory terms quite refreshing.

  ‘The assaults on my dignity didn’t stop when he left. Next I had to endure their lavish white wedding. A church wedding! The same vows repeated! Then they called their daughter Auriol. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Awful name,’mumbles Chris.

  ‘Lovely name!’

  ‘Oh right. Then, sorry, but what was the problem exactly?’

  ‘It was my name! The name Peter and I had settled on if I had ever had a daughter. I seethed, but there have been so many occasions since the divorce when I felt I might implode with anger.’

  ‘So you told them you were bothered, right?’

  ‘No. I reminded myself of that Aesop’s fable about the sun and wind arguing to see who was the strongest. The matter was settled when the wind could not blow the cloak off a stubborn traveller but the sun shone and the guy voluntarily disrobed.’

  ‘Er, sorry, who were you trying to get to undress?’

  Chris is trying to listen but he’s struggling to understand. The best part of three litres of wine tends to have that effect. It doesn’t matter, he’s just the sort of audience I need right now.

  ‘I heard the story as a child and it’s remained with me. Maybe I’d have benefited from a good blow now and again. I didn’t show my anger, I just smiled at my ex-husband, who was now intimately acquainted with another woman’s gynaecology, and said, “Lovely name.” I played with the idea of adding, “I’ve always liked that name,” because Lucy would know exactly what that meant. After all, Lucy is a woman (among other things). But I held my tongue. More wine?’

  Chris turns out to be the perfect companion. He doesn’t mind that I skitter from one story to the next or that I get frustrated, wistful or weepy. I assume this is because as a drunk he’s used to helter-skeltering from one emotion to another. I talk about Peter and Lucy for most of the evening. I talk about how resentful I feel. How betrayed. How put-upon. I realize that I am breaking a golden date rule by ranting about my ex but I don’t care. For once I have the courage to dismiss the rule book.

  At eleven-thirty we stagger out of the restaurant. Chris is barely in a fit state to remember his address, let alone invite me back for ‘coffee’. This suits me, I’d have declined anyway. I help him into a cab, smile fondly and wave as he pulls away. He manages to wave back, in a rather limp fashion, before he passes out. I hail another cab and as I settle into my seat I mentally assess the evening. I give it a six out of ten, maybe even a seven. My date with Kevin had not scored at all. Tonight was progress. Walking out of that restaurant tonight, I felt two stone lighter. It was so wonderful to be able to talk freely, honestly and without interruption. I’ve never been able to talk to Connie or Daisy that truthfully, my pain would have upset them too much.

  I enjoyed the freefall of speaking my mind and I make a note that I must recommend Susanne goes on a date with Chris. It’s much cheaper than seeing a therapist.

  21

  Wednesday 4 October

  John

  I chose to meet on a Wednesday as there’s no pressure attached to a Wednesday. Thursdays and Fridays are clearly date days. Mondays and Tuesdays are the days you use up putting in a bit of extra time at work or seeing someone you’re not that bothered about. Wednesdays are neutral.

  I arrive in good time. I have money on the fact that she’ll be late but if she arrives before me she’ll turn around immediately. I know she’ll turn up. Once, at the very beginning, she ran away from me. After that she always ran towards.

  I watch her stride into the pub. She’s wearing her leather coat again but this time with heels. Good girl. She’s in full make-up and looks great. Chin up, she scans the room; when she spots me, she frowns a little but heads straight over.

  ‘Jesus, Greenie, of all the bars in all the world,’I say as I lean to kiss her cheek. There’s a moment where I think she might pull away but she doesn’t.

  ‘You’ve misquoted.’

  ‘I’m not one for detail.’

  ‘You never were.’

  It’s great that we fall straight back into the sparring. I think I liked her mind just as much as her body. Before she turned psycho, that is. Then all I was interested in was her tits and bits.

  ‘But us bumping into each other at the school gate is like something out of a film, isn’t it?’I comment. ‘Like one of those great old black-and-white films where the protagonists’lives criss-cross over and over again. Like they were fated, or destined, or something.’She looks sceptical, or at least wary. I’m warming to my theme. ‘It’s fate, Greenie, that Craig is the headmaster at your kid’s school.’

  ‘That or a horrible coincidence and a vile inconvenience. I guess it depends upon your viewpoint.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. We were supposed to meet again.’She always believed in fate. Despite her cool words I see her mentally struggling. She undoes her coat and sits down on the bar stool next to me. ‘You still believe in fate, don’t you, babe? You always did in the past.’

  ‘As somebody once said, “The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there.”’

  Connie orders an orange juice and asks me what I want. I order a pint and a whisky chaser but insist on paying. I’d have preferred it if she’d ordered alcohol too. I was counting on her needing a drink. Her new confidence is somewhat disconcerting. Jesus, I hope she’s not teetotal now. I mean, I like a challenge but that would be off-putting.

  ‘Greenie, I have to say it, and don’t take this the wrong way, you are looking hot, babe.’I lean forward and let my knee nudge hers. I feel a jolt of sexual tension, which is cheering because I believe those things are always two-way.

  Connie looks uncomfortable. She gets off her bar stool and drags it a few centimetres away from mine. I see the point she is making. Stevie Wonder would be able to see the point she’s making.

  ‘I’m not Greenie. I’m Constance Baker,’she says primly. ‘You know, I was even when we met for the very first time.’

  ‘Not to me, you were always Greenie, always will be.’This isn’t true. I often think of her as Connie, or even Constance, but I’ve rarely called her that. Funny that first names appeared overly intimate back then, considering the other intimacies we shared.

  ‘Could you call me Connie? Everybody does.’

  ‘But I’m not everybody, baby.’

  She stares at me coolly. I study her face and try to discern whether it’s dislike I can see festering there. Or anger? Or disappointment? They are all a possibility.

  ‘You’re right, you’re nobody,’she says.

  ‘No, darling, I’m your somebody and we both know it,’I grin, unperturbed.

  She looks indignant and snaps, ‘I don’t know why I’m here.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’I wink at her. />
  ‘No, I don’t,’she counters, firmly.

  ‘Where else would you be?’

  This question offers Greenie a choice. She can choose to interpret it at a purely basic level – a genuine enquiry about her busy schedule – thus breaking the obvious tension between us. Or she could choose to interpret it as a more metaphysical question. Where else should Greenie be except by the side of her Hardie? If she wants to flirt she’ll opt for the latter.

  ‘I have a million things I should be doing. Invoicing, watching The Bill, ironing.’

  OK, if that’s the way she wants to play it, I won’t push her. I interrupt her before she lists darning socks as an essential must do.

  ‘Oh yeah, you’re a mother now. How’s all that working out for you? What have you got? A girl and a boy? The set?’

  ‘Two girls. You met them, remember?’I do remember but I want to give the impression of disinterest. ‘We might try for a third soon,’she adds.

  Women say this sort of thing as code for, ‘We are happy. My husband and I have a healthy sex life. Back off.’It’s not always true.

  ‘Bloody hell, Greenie. What’s the plan? Are you trying to single-handedly populate West London?’

  She’s looking good on it though, motherhood suits her.

  Connie has a thinner face now than before. Age does that to some women. Her skin is almost transparent, she looks delicate. Age has not withered her, etc. etc. She’s a regular Cleopatra, more stunning with the years that pass. She used to be cocky and flirty and that was irresistible then. Now, she’s deeper. More complete, and it shows in her face. And I find her oddly compelling. I could look at her for hours.

  ‘Let me buy you a proper drink, Connie. A bottle of champagne. For old times’sake.’

  She looks at her orange juice with something approaching despair, certainly boredom – an expression that regularly used to flash across Connie’s face.

  ‘Go on then. I’ll have one glass. But it’s not for old times’sake. It’s to celebrate the fact you’ve just called me Connie.’

  I ignore her request for a glass and order a bottle. She used to be known as ‘Green the Champagne Queen’. She can’t resist champagne. In fact, Connie is pretty hopeless at resisting anything much at all.

  She takes a sip of champagne and then she’s off. Like a horse out of the traps, she gallops on; I’m barely able to keep up. She starts to chat about motherhood, as she’s taken my casual enquiry to be a genuine request for insight. She talks about her photography. She fills me in on what a couple of her mates are doing, ones I came across way-back-when. She mentions her husband from time to time, quite naturally, as though she does not remember that between us we made him a cuckold. She doesn’t ask me anything at all. Can she be that disinterested?

  I used to be a bit afraid of her. Can you imagine that? Me afraid? Problem was I saw her for exactly what she was. Too like me. Too wild and selfish. She used me just as much as I used her, although she’d never admit it. It doesn’t sit with her romantic image of herself. I wanted to possess her firm ass and tiny tits. Like I want to possess most firm asses and tiny titties that I come across – it doesn’t mean anything – I’m programmed that way. She wanted something to perk up her middle-class existence. The early days of her marriage were stultifying and she wanted to shake up her dope of a husband, who had lost sight of her. I often thought that’s all I was to her, a big yellow warning card issued to her husband.

  And yeah, we had the laughs. She was funny, in a mental sort of way, and that really can be a turn-on. And Jesus, wow, she really was fairly unique with her happy confidence to do just about anything in the sack. Or out of the sack, for that matter. She was far braver than I. Happy to drop to her knees in a back alley if I expressed a whim to wear my trousers around my ankles. I don’t usually have the balls for that sort of stuff unless I’m drunk. But then, we were often drunk. Thing is, I’m a victim of slum prudery. The old-school working classes have quite high morals on public sex and that sort of stuff. We don’t take that type of personal risk. We prefer our porn in the privacy of our own pad. It’s only total louts and chavs that fuck in bars in Ibiza. But Connie isn’t a chav. Never was. It wasn’t sleazy, it was necessary. Instinctual. Animalistic.

  But did she ever love me? I keep returning to that. Bloody Craig. I’d never thought about it. Not really. What bloke does? But now I can’t get his question out of my head. And I want to know. I want to know if Connie ever loved me. I need to know. What the fuck’s that about?

  It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. What difference does it make if she fell for me with her head and her heart, too? I got a free pass to her wet and willing vag, didn’t I? But recently I’ve found myself wondering, could I have tamed a woman like her? That’s what women try (and fail) to do all the time, isn’t it? They find a bad boy, fall for him (because he is intrinsically bad) and then spend forever convincing themselves that they alone can hammer out the deviant and turn him into some pussy-whipped shadow. I know loads of birds have tried that game on me, including my ex-wife. I’ve always thought it was the ultimate in stupidity. I’ve always pitied and been disgusted by their clingy, crappy wish to be normal, to settle down, but now I’m finding myself understanding it a little more.

  Connie is a bright woman, creative, fiery, difficult to please, and now I see her oozing contentment and genuine shiny, bloody happiness and I wonder could I have ever brought that to her? Could I have made her give up the flirting and the risk-taking, the way Luke did? I always think of him as some big sap. But maybe he is the better man. Maybe she chose him.

  I dumped Connie, right. I want that noted in our history. She was all clingy and addicted and messy. Too messy actually, which is why I had to say enough is enough. One night she rang me eight times. I’d said I’d see her, told her to meet me at my place and she couldn’t find my flat or something. She’d never written down my address and she’d never arrived there sober. Jesus, the messages she left on my phone, a madwoman. In one message she accused me of shagging someone else while I waited for her, like I’d have the energy for that! In another message she sounded close to tears. In another she was shouting hysterically, yelling that she wouldn’t be avoided; insisting that I had to call her back and tell her where the flat was. In her eighth message she changed tack and said coolly that although I was a good fuck, I wasn’t that good (which is a lie) and she wasn’t prepared to drive around East London all evening trying to track me down.

  Silly cow.

  She’d managed to have a full row with me, go through the entire spectrum of emotions, without my actually picking up the phone.

  Yet there were times when I sent her texts, flirty, jokey ones or ones asking her to meet up, and she never even replied. Cool cucumber or mad as a hatter? Thin line.

  We had big talks. Some of the things she said to me will stay with me forever. They were so precise. They caught the essence of me, so there were times when I thought she knew me better than anyone in this world has ever known me. Even myself. She seemed to be able to mine a direct line to my deepest insecurities, my strongest passions, the moments I am intensely proud of and those that make me squirm in shame.

  I felt known. And liked.

  And then other times she didn’t have a clue.

  After about an hour of her constant chatter and my odd interjection where I bring her up to date about the things in my life, I note that we’ve drunk the entire bottle of champagne. Now seems as good a time as any.

  ‘Were you in love with me, Connie?’I ask.

  She immediately pulls away from me and is wearing an expression I’d expect if I’d just spat at her.

  I’ve been thinking about how to phrase this question all week. I considered asking, ‘Did you love me?’But dismissed that approach as too vague. It would then be so easy for her to spit out the standard response, ‘I loved you but I wasn’t in love with you.’A great loophole, which means shit. I know I’ve used it on more than one occasion. I could have a
sked, ‘Were you ever in love with me?’But that sounds a bit desperate. Or a statement: ‘I know you were in love with me.’Too arrogant, and it doesn’t specifically necessitate a response. She sighs. Her face is full of fear (who is she afraid of, me, herself, Luke?) and regret (Oh so many regrets, rammed cheek by jowl, where to start?) but if I look carefully her face also shines with opportunity. Has she waited six years for me to ask that question? Probably.

  We never talked about love. We talked about sex, desire, experience, films, families, dreams, all the stuff that is used as consolations and props and avoidance techniques as we live our lives and especially when we lie in strangers’beds. Tangled in sheets and sweat, we screamed ‘fuck me’, ‘shag me’, ‘shit that’s good’. But we never said the really filthy four-letter word. Love.

  She does not meet my gaze. People often say liars can’t meet your gaze. In the company I keep it’s telling the truth that often shames us the most.

  ‘My friends think I was in lust,’she says. Her voice sounds unfamiliar, she’s breathing too shallowly.

  ‘You’ve never been one to bend to peer pressure,’I point out, digging deeper and complimenting her independence of spirit at the same time. Connie is vain and responds as I hoped.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘So?’

  She waits and waits. About a million years, then, ‘Yes. I was in love with you.’

  Now she can meet my eye. The words are out. The truth is out. She’s staring at me now, challenging. Waiting for my response. I don’t say anything, so she goes on.

  ‘I was deeply in love with you for a very short time. I experienced the whole shebang. I could not sleep, or eat, or work.’She says these things very slowly. Normally she speaks too quickly, gabbling her words. But she wants to be as plain and clear as possible. Her chest rises and falls. ‘You were my waking thought, my last thought; you filled all the moments in between and my dreams. For a brief time there was nothing I would not have done for you, including perhaps leaving my husband.’I believe her. ‘You talked about fate earlier, John, and you are right, I do believe in fate. You were supposed to come into my life. You changed everything. You woke me up. I was sleepwalking until Paris. I was living a half life. Not seeing what I had. Not knowing what I wanted.’