Straight Talking

by Jane Green

  “She still doesn’t talk to me,” says Andrew, sighing. “You would have thought after all this time it wouldn’t matter, but apparently I’m still the biggest bastard she’s ever met.”

  “You went out with Kay?” I lean forward, interrupting Andrew, and he ignores me. “Andrew, did you go out with Kay?” He’s still talking but this is urgent, I need to know his type, I need to know whether he went out with plain Kay, Kay who’s not that attractive, Kay who’s not that dynamic.

  “Tasha, don’t interrupt, just wait until I finish talking.” I sit back in my chair, embarrassed, I’ve been put in my place, and as I sit there I feel a grudging respect for Andrew. No one, no man, no woman, no boss, no one has ever managed to put me in my place.

  This is a man I could love, I think. This is the first man I’ve ever met who hasn’t been intimidated by me. Stop it, Tasha, I think, he doesn’t want you. If he wanted you he’d ring and say he wanted to take you out for dinner. If he wanted you he’d want to be with you. He wouldn’t ring and say he wanted to go out and play. He wouldn’t turn around and say what he needs is some nice uncomplicated sex with no strings attached.

  Finally he turns to me and says, “Now I’ll answer your question. Yes, I did go out with Kay.”

  And I’m flummoxed, I don’t know what to say, whether he realizes why it’s so important to me. “I’m surprised, that’s all,” I say. “I couldn’t see the two of you together.”

  “Neither could he,” laughs Adam, “that was the problem.”

  We sit and we talk and I cannot take my eyes off Andrew. I hardly look at Adam, just occasionally glance his way as I’m talking, just so he doesn’t feel too excluded.

  And Adam grows more and more quiet, allowing Andrew to take center stage, as he so obviously needs to do, but I can’t help but feel there’s something more. Andrew gets up to go to the toilet, and I look at Adam, who’s looking down at the table.

  “Are you all right? You’re very quiet tonight,” I ask gently.

  “I’m fine,” he says, a bit too abruptly.

  “Are you sure? There’s nothing wrong, is there?” Adam doesn’t say anything, he just sighs and then looks up at me. Just as he’s about to say something, something that I feel will be important, our food arrives, huge pizzas, flowing over the edges of the plates, and bowls of salad, and then Andrew’s back, and whatever Adam was going to say, has gone. The moment has passed, and for a second I wonder what it is, but then Andrew is holding a slice of his pizza to my mouth saying, “Try this, it’s wonderful,” and I concentrate on eating his pizza, on accepting this gesture of intimacy in as sensual a way as I know how.

  Andrew doesn’t ask about me. I spend the evening listening to him talk, occasionally adding my own comments, but for once, I am not the center of attention, I am not the one who is entertaining, and although it is strange, I quite enjoy it.

  So many of my old friends are married, or in long relationships and they invite me over for dinner and sit there hanging on to my every word. “We live our lives vicariously through you,” they all say, each and every one thinking they are the only ones who say it.

  The grass is always greener, isn’t it? When you’re single you ache to roll over in bed in the mornings next to someone you love. You gaze wistfully at couples kissing in the park, and you spend hours daydreaming elaborate fantasies about what you will do when you’re in a couple.

  But when you are part of a couple, when you have grown accustomed to waking up next to your lover in the morning, when you know that weekends aren’t filled with wandering down canals and sharing intimate breakfasts, they are filled instead with small rows because he never wants to do anything, he’s playing rugby with the boys, he wants to watch the match on television, you long for the excitement that comes with being single.

  And, oh, how they look forward to their glamorous single friends, women like me, coming over to fill their life with secondhand excitement. They’d never change their life, they say, but they can’t help a small regret that it will never be like this for them again.

  But their excitement at my life fuels me. It makes me embellish, exaggerate, and of course, they only ever hear the good bits. They hear about the flirtatious conversations, the first kisses, the first time you have sex . . . if you know them well enough.

  They don’t hear about the nights you sit at parties and watch other couples, wondering what is wrong with you that this never seems to happen to you. They don’t hear about the times you sit on your sofa feeling sorry for yourself, when you put on a compilation of love songs and cry softly for three hours.

  They don’t feel your pain when yet another man, another potential soulmate, turns around and says he doesn’t want you anymore. When he echoes your mother telling you you’re not good enough.

  Once Freya turned around to me, Freya, my oldest friend who is so perceptive and so wise and so married, and she said, “You always make it sound wonderful. But sometimes I think it must be so awful for you. That you do a great job of hiding the pain, that sometimes you must feel so lonely.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t in fact say anything, because my throat closed up and I thought I was going to cry. Because of course I do a great job of hiding the inner turmoil, and people only see the cool, tough, exciting life of a single woman. They see what they want to see, and very few people will bother to look deeper.

  When our meal is finished Andrew reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and draws out a cigar. A big, fat, Havana cigar, and slowly, sensually, he rolls it in his fingers before cutting off the end and lighting it.

  I love watching men smoke cigars, and Andrew looks up to find me watching him in rapture.

  “Do you smoke?” he says.

  “Not cigars, but I’d like to.”

  “You have to learn, you have to be taught by a connoisseur,” he says. “Look, I’ll show you.” And he offers me his index finger across the table.

  “Show me how you’d do it.” And as I guide his finger to my mouth Adam, the restaurant, the past and the present recede, and it is just me and Andrew, here and now. I slowly take his finger into my mouth, and I’m not imagining it’s a cigar, I’m imagining it’s his cock, and I’m looking into his eyes as I take his finger deep within my mouth.

  “Very good,” he says, looking into my eyes, “but not quite. Give me your hand, I’ll show you.” And he takes my finger and does the same to me and my hands being as erogenous as they are, I sit there feeling so turned on I think I’m going to faint.

  And then he hands me his cigar and watches me through narrowed eyes as I suck slowly on it, knowing how phallic it is, knowing what he’s thinking, knowing what Adam’s thinking and not giving a damn.

  “My God you do that well,” he says. “I love watching women smoke big fat cigars. Do you have any idea how sexy you look?” Of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it. Cigars make me feel ever so slightly sick, but this is the best flirtation I have had in years, and I am relishing every bitter taste, every smoke-filled mouthful.

  “No wonder you’re so successful with men, it’s a great technique,” he says, and I wonder what he’s talking about.

  “What do you mean? I’m not successful with men, I’m single, for God’s sake,” I laugh.

  “Yes, but you’re not short of admirers. Or sex, I would imagine. When was the last time you had sex?”

  “What are you trying to say? Do you think I’m easy?” I’m absolutely horrified, the last thing in the world I want Andrew to think is that I’m a slut.

  “No, I don’t think you’re easy. I think, if you want me to be perfectly honest, I think that you’re the sort of woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to pursue it. I think that if you met a man who you were attracted to, you would enjoy him just for the sake of enjoyment.

  “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a huge compliment, I wish there were more women like you.”

  And of course I take the compliment and cherish it, because
he sees me as a sexual, sexually mature woman, but there is an insult hidden in there too, he has just said the words I had dreaded hearing. He has said that I am the kind of woman you shag, not the kind of woman you fall in love with.

  God, how I wish it were different, how I wish I were different. How, at times like these, I wish I were like Mel, or Emma, or anyone, my friends who have long relationships, my friends who might know the pain of being in a relationship that isn’t going where they want it to go, but who have no idea what the pain of being single is like.

  We finish and Adam and Andrew insist on paying for me. Adam gives me a big hug good-bye and says he’ll call me tomorrow, and Andrew and I walk together up the road to our cars.

  But the funny thing is he’s different now. I’m walking up the road thinking, this is it, now he’ll kiss me, now it will happen, and he’s distanced himself. Like so many men, at the crucial moment he’s backing off.

  We reach the car and I turn to him, face raised expectantly, and he puts his hand to my cheek, leans down and gives me a long, soft, kiss on the lips. My eyes are closed waiting for more, until he says, “Take care, I’ll see you soon,” and the look of disappointment is so obvious he stops, takes another step closer to me and puts his hand back to my chin, pulling it toward him.

  His mouth meets mine again, and this time he kisses me properly, and I’m so nervous that my legs practically buckle. We stand there, tongues intertwined, and he pulls away and says, “Jesus, you are unbelievable. I can’t believe you just did that.”

  “Are you serious? It wasn’t me. You kissed me!”

  “I couldn’t help it, your lips looked so kissable. You live near here don’t you?” I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Shall I come back for a coffee?” And he’s smiling, and all of a sudden I’m not sure. I’m not sure.

  I’m not sure because I have seriously fallen for him and I’m not sure whether I can deal with the consequences.

  “I don’t know. What do you think?” I’m praying he’ll say he can’t stop thinking about me, that this will be the beginning of something big, that perhaps we could start slowly and see where it goes.

  But of course this isn’t a film, this is real life and he says, “I think I’d like to take you to bed, I’d like to make love to you.”

  “That’s all, though, we wouldn’t be having a relationship.” I make it sound like a statement, but in fact it’s a question, and Andrew knows this.

  “No, we wouldn’t be having a relationship, but that doesn’t have to stop us enjoying each other just for tonight.”

  There it is, in black and white, dear reader, and you know what? I can’t do this. I can’t deal with tomorrow morning, if he’s kind enough to stay the night, that is.

  “No.” I shake my head firmly, almost in disbelief at the word that just came out of my mouth. “It’s better if you go.”

  I must be bloody crazy, but a part of me whispers that perhaps if I play a bit hard to get, even though I know it would just be a fling, perhaps I might make him fall for me after all.

  So I kiss him one more time on the lips, and walk off to my car. But you might be proud of me because I didn’t turn around to look at him. Not once.

  11

  What can I tell you about my life after Simon left? That I woke up each morning with tear-stained cheeks, when I was lucky enough to sleep at all, that is.

  That most nights I drifted off to sleep like a baby, and dreamed about Simon, yes, actually dreamed about him, until I woke up crying at three o’clock in the morning and then spent the rest of the night wandering aimlessly around my flat, reliving every minute of our relationship.

  That if it hadn’t been for Mel, and then Adam, I don’t think I would have made it. That up until that point I had never ever understood what it was like to lose someone you really loved. That up until that night Simon left, I never really understood what pain was like.

  The day after he left I tried to go into work and I got the bus. I walked up to the bus stop, climbed onto the bus and leaned my head against the window as huge sobs took over, and I didn’t care. I knew that everyone on the bus was staring at me, but I couldn’t stop.

  A middle-aged woman came and sat down next to me and took my hand. “What’s the matter?” she demanded. “Why are you crying?”

  In between the sobs, and the huge deep breaths that seemed to take all my strength I told her. “I’ve split . . . my . . . boyfriend.”

  “Bastards. They’re all bastards,” she said. “Was it another woman? It’s always another woman.” I nodded as a fresh wave of sobbing took over. The other passengers had stopped looking at me but, Christ, were they listening. It was probably the most exciting bus journey most of them had ever had.

  “My husband left me for another woman. Slung him out, I did, you’re much better off without them.” She was talking so loudly, so passionately, it was almost funny.

  “Came home one day and caught him in bed with some tart from the shops down the road, and now it’s just me and the kids and we’re all happier without the sod.”

  I couldn’t help myself, I smiled through my tears. She kept talking at me, all the way to work, and in the end, just as I was getting off the bus, she squeezed my hand. “You’ll be all right, love, you’ll see. Pretty girl like you? Won’t be long before you find another one. Like bloody buses they are.”

  But I don’t want another one, I remember thinking as I stepped off. I want Simon, and boom, another fresh round of tears.

  Three weeks later I slept with Jeff. He was a friend of Simon’s who had always had a crush on me, although he never said as much. I bumped into him in my lunch break. Tall, good-looking but absolutely not my type, he took me for lunch.

  Jeff had always fancied me, had always gone along with the flirt, but his smooth, suave good looks, his penchant for the theater and the ballet were a world apart from mine, and I knew quite categorically that we would never make a good team.

  “How are you?” he said, which is what everyone said in those early days. “Have you spoken to Simon?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “I saw him last weekend, we were at the same party. Adam was there too.”

  “Who was Simon with?” I couldn’t help myself, I had to know.

  “Some blonde. Pretty but thick. Not a patch on you.”

  I felt physically sick. It was Tanya, and that was when I made up my mind. Forcing a flirtatious smile when it really was the last thing on my mind I said, “Do you mean that? What have I got that she hasn’t?”

  “Well, for starters you’re stunning. Plus you’ve got a brain, and you’re good fun. What more could a bloke ask for?” I remembered going out in a group when Jeff was there, when I was enjoying the attention and being the life and soul of the party.

  When I didn’t care whether or not blokes fancied me because I loved Simon and Simon loved me, and I could flirt because it didn’t mean anything. That was what Jeff meant by good fun. He meant a good flirt.

  “You wouldn’t go out with someone like me though, would you?”

  Jeff smiled. “Tasha, I spent nine months feeling jealous as hell that Simon had gotten you.”

  “So what about now, then?”

  Jeff stopped smiling. “What about now?”

  “Would you go out with me now?” Talk about self-destruct but I didn’t care, and Jeff was as close as I was going to get to Simon. I could hurt Simon through Jeff. Even if he never found out it wouldn’t matter because I would know, and in my own way I would be getting my own back.

  Jeff’s eyes were wide. “Are you serious? Would you seriously go out with me?”

  Now it was my turn to smile. “Maybe it’s a bit early to tell. Maybe we should just have an affair.”

  Jesus Christ. Anyone would have thought someone had told Jeff it was Christmas every day for the rest of his life. “When?” he said slowly.

  “Why don’t you come over tonight?”

  “I’m going to the thea
ter, but it won’t finish late. Why don’t I come over afterward?”

  “OK.” Even as I said it it didn’t feel real. It felt as if this was happening to someone else so I didn’t think about it for the rest of the day, I just carried on as if everything were normal.

  And I got home and sat there watching the clock, not really thinking about anything, my mind a complete blank.

  At ten o’clock I got up and poured myself a very large vodka. I didn’t fancy Jeff, I never had, but this was something I had to do. I phoned Mel.

  “Mel, I know you’re going to think I’m a complete slut but I think I’m going to have an affair with Jeff.”

  “Oh Tasha, that’s not the answer. You’re just trying to hurt Simon more. Just let it go and get on with your life.”

  “I can’t. He’s on his way and I’m going to do it. I have to.”

  “Why, so Simon can feel better about Tanya because you’re sleeping with his friends?”

  “No, because I need to feel someone other than Simon. Because I need to know that Simon isn’t the only man in the world. Because I’ve been feeling like shit and I know Jeff fancies me and I need to still feel that there are other possibilities.”

  Mel sighed deeply. “I know you’re going to do it, Tash, but be careful. This really isn’t what you need right now.”

  I put the phone down and poured another drink. Dutch courage, and at 10:15 I put on a silk dressing gown and that was all. At 10:30, on the dot, just at the time Jeff said he’d arrive, the doorbell rang.

  “Hi,” he said, “I didn’t think I’d make it on . . .” and he stopped, because I had already wrapped my arms and legs around him like an octopus and I started to kiss him passionately, forcing his mouth open with my tongue, stopping him from saying anything else.

  I wish I could tell you the kiss was worth it, but it wasn’t, it was pure performance on my part. I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing, but I had to go through with it, had to prove something to myself and to Simon. In absentia.