Straight Talking

by Jane Green

  Annalise is looking confused and I’m holding my breath in the gallery. Is she saying what I think she’s saying?

  “Do you mean he buys women?” David’s now looking uncertain, and I’m praying that the lawyers will help me out should this turn out to be a massive case of slander.

  “That’s a very polite way of putting it.” Molly smiles.

  “Did he buy you?” Annalise is looking horrified.

  “No, darling, he didn’t have to, I’m not a call girl. There are a few men scattered around the world who are incredibly wealthy. Where these men go there will always be women who are after their money. The girls tend to be very young and very beautiful. They would never describe themselves as prostitutes because they don’t pick up their clients on a street corner. They are introduced to their clients, and payment generally comes in the form of gifts.

  “Occasionally the gifts are cash, and we’re talking thousands of dollars—these girls are the very best—but generally it’s a gold Rolex, or a diamond bracelet, or a sable coat.”

  “So you’re saying that Richard Beer uses prostitutes?”

  “Richard is a man with a huge sexual appetite and a huge amount of money. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Molly, that’s all we have time for I’m afraid but thank you for coming in.” Annalise looks at her with total distaste before looking into the camera again. “Join us after the break for our call-in, When Love Goes Sour.”

  I’m walking into the Green Room—the hospitality area for guests and hosts—after the show when David walks out of his dressing room. “Oh, Tasha,” he says, “could I have a quick word?” and he holds open the door of his dressing room for me to walk in.

  “Sit down,” he smiles and gestures to his makeup chair, and I sit as he stands and leans back against the table in front of me. Because the room is so small we are perhaps a foot apart, and David is asserting himself as the dominant man, towering above me and leaning over ever so slightly.

  “Well, Tasha,” he says. “I think the show today was excellent. Truly, truly excellent.”

  I’m so shocked my mouth just drops open. Never in the history of my television career has a host ever given such lavish praise.

  “We’ve worked together a while now,” he says, “and I want you to know that you’re an invaluable member of the team. You’ve come a long way, and I truly believe you have an incredible future ahead of you.”

  “David, um, thank you. Christ, I don’t really know what to say.”

  “Sometimes in television people forget to give credit where it’s deserved. It’s a fast industry and most of the time we’re too busy running around to thank people, so I just wanted you to know how much you mean to this program.”

  This is unheard of and I smile broadly, can’t, in fact, wipe the smile off my face.

  “I’m off to the café down the road for a spot of lunch before we go into the meeting, would you, er, like to join me perhaps?”

  Ah-ha. Now we’re getting to the crux of this little chat. Yes, David Miller is interested in me, and assumes that flattery will get him everywhere. Except in this case it won’t, because attractive as he is, he’s also married, and as I think about how to respond to his invitation, my eye catches the photos stuck into the frame of the mirror behind him. Two cherubic blonde girls and a plump but still pretty wife.

  “I’d love to, David,” I say, looking him in the eye and watching his expression change, the nerves replaced by a smug smile, “but I can’t. I promised Jilly I’d help her with some editing which has to be done today. Another time perhaps?”

  “Oh yes,” he blusters, “of course. What time is it?” He looks at his watch. “Goodness, better be getting along.”

  Mel brings in a half-full bottle of wine and plonks a couple of glasses on the coffee table. We settle back, I point the remote control at the video and I’m about to press Play when the phone rings. Mel rolls her eyes and I pick up the phone.

  “It’s me.” Me, in this instance, is Andy, although sometimes I don’t know, sometimes I get it wrong because every single one of my friends calls me and says, “It’s me.”

  “Hi Andy. How are you?”

  “Oh Tash, he hasn’t called,” she whines.

  “Who hasn’t called?”

  “Rick, that bloke from the party.” Ah yes. The one who gave her a lift home, came in for coffee and stayed until the next morning. The one that Andy has not stopped talking about ever since. The one who left her house without her phone number, so she had to quickly scribble it on a piece of paper and run out the door after him shouting that he had forgotten something.

  “I’m sorry, Andy, but these things happen. Just put it behind you, you’re bound to meet someone else.”

  “But I really like him.”

  “I know you do.” She always does. “But if he hasn’t called, just leave it.”

  “But what if I phoned him and said I had tickets to something, something that he wanted to see, then I’m sure he’d say yes. I’m sure he does want to see me again, he’s probably busy.”

  I sigh loudly. Does this woman not recognize a losing battle when she sees one?

  “Tickets to what?”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you. Have you got any film premieres or anything coming up?” I look at Mel and it’s my turn to roll my eyes. As part of my job I am regularly sent invitations to launches, premieres, press parties, events that sound so glamorous but are, in fact, so boring, I have stopped going.

  They were great in the beginning. I’d go along, play spot-the-celebrity and if I was lucky I’d even get to talk to them. Once or twice I even managed to snog a couple, but now I avoid them. I think I’ve outgrown them but Andy obviously hasn’t.

  “I’m sure I’ve got tickets to something but they’re in the office. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow at work?”

  “Fantastic! Thanks, Tash.”

  “But, Andy, I still don’t think you should call.”

  “Why not? We’re in the nineties now, women are equals.”

  I say good-bye without telling her my theory on men and phones. That when a man doesn’t call it’s not because he’s too busy or he lost your number. It’s because he doesn’t want to call.

  I repeat the conversation to Mel, who shakes her head. “When will she learn?” and then we both settle back to watch the call-in. I press Play and . . . cricket. Yes, a bloody cricket match.

  “Oh Mel! You recorded the wrong bloody channel.”

  “No, I’m sure I didn’t. Press Fast Forward, this must be what you recorded before.”

  “Yeah really, Mel, God forbid I should miss England versus the West Indies or whoever the hell they are. Why would I ever have recorded cricket?”

  “Oh sorry,” she groans, “but forward anyway just in case.”

  “Oh well,” I shrug, “you just missed some interesting calls, I thought it might help put things in perspective.”

  “Sweetie, that’s really kind of you but I’m OK. Of course I miss Daniel, all the time, but in some ways I feel relief. I’d forgotten what the old me was like, and I think I’m starting to find her again.”

  “So what about that guy from Andy’s party? Martin.”

  “What about him?”

  “I just think you should go out with him, it’s only a drink, and it would do you good. We’re not talking about walking down the aisle with him or whipping your knickers off, it’s just a friendly drink.”

  “I don’t know, Tash. I’m just not ready to even entertain the thought of another man, even though he was nice, really nice.”

  “Are you hungry?” I’ve just thought of a superb diversion tactic.

  “Starving, what can we eat?”

  “Well, I haven’t got any food, but I could go out and get something.” I check my watch. “The deli’s still open, we can gorge on taramasalata and tzatsiki and olives. I’ll go.”

  And Mel says, as I knew she would because staying with me she’s trying to
do everything to thank me, “No, I’ll go. You stay here while I pop out.”

  For once I don’t argue and as soon as she’s out the door I pick up the phone and ring Tom to get Martin’s number.

  Martin’s machine picks up. “Hello Martin? I don’t know whether you remember me but this is Anastasia, Tasha, and we met at Andy’s barbecue a few weeks ago. You were talking to my friend Mel and she’s staying with me at the moment. I know you wanted her number and she wouldn’t give it to you because she was in a relationship but um, they’ve actually split up and I think she’d really like to hear from . . .” The phone is picked up by a breathless voice.

  “Tasha?”

  “Martin?”

  “Hi!” I can hear his grin down the phone.

  “Did you hear my message?”

  “YES! I’d love to speak to her. Is she there?”

  “No, she’s popped out but she’d kill me if she knew I’d done this. Take my number then call in about an hour’s time and say that you tracked her down via Andy.”

  “That’s just smashing. Thanks, Tasha, I’ll call in an hour.”

  Smashing? Who the hell says smashing anymore? Thank Christ, Mel and I have such different tastes.

  Mel comes back laden down with food and we eat on the floor in front of the television. When the phone rings, exactly one hour after I called him, I pick it up with a bored, “Hello?”

  “Oh hi . . . Martin, how are you?” I look at Mel, widening my eyes in fake disbelief. Mel widens her eyes in genuine disbelief and puts down her plate.

  “Yes, it was a good party, wasn’t it? Sure, she’s just here, hang on.” I cover the mouthpiece as I hand the phone to Mel, and whisper, “Jesus, talk about coincidence.”

  “I know,” she whispers back as she takes the phone. “That’s amazing.”

  I collect the plates as quietly as I can and take them into the kitchen to wash up. I can hear Mel laughing as I clatter around, and just as I’m finishing she comes into the kitchen.

  “Well, I can’t believe that,” she says, and she can’t stop smiling.

  “Me neither.” I add, “So what did he say?”

  “I am going out for that drink with him, tomorrow night in fact, but it’s just a drink, I’m not ready for a relationship at all, but he is nice. He’s really nice.”

  “What are you going to wear?” I’m asking out of habit, knowing that Mel doesn’t give a damn about what she wears.

  “Oh nothing special, it’s just a friendly drink.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow night? Why don’t you join us?”

  “MEL! Are you nuts? I really enjoy being the odd one out . . . I don’t think. I can’t anyway, I’m going out with Adam.”

  I’m not going out with Adam. I’m not doing anything, but now I have to call Adam and I do this while I’m lying in bed, feeling hugely sorry for myself.

  Yes I love Mel, and yes I want her to be happy, but when will it be my turn? When will I meet someone who will take care of me? I sigh wearily and dial Adam’s number.

  I tell him about Mel and Martin and he is over the moon for Mel. I also tell him about me, and about how even though I am happy for her, I can’t understand why it never happens to me.

  Adam says all the right things and when I tell him he has to take me out tomorrow night he says he hasn’t seen me on my own for ages and it is just what the doctor ordered.

  He tells me that one day, and probably not too far away, one day I will meet a man who will adore me because I’m special and beautiful and any guy would be lucky to have me.

  But even as I put the phone down I still feel miserable. Why me? I think as I’m drifting into a dreamless sleep. Or rather, why not me?

  14

  Mel’s been bubbling away ever since I got home. She even—and believe me, this is seriously unusual for her—she even went to the Body Shop and bought an herbal face mask.

  Can you believe it? Mel, in a face mask? She is excited, but I think she feels she shouldn’t be, that she needs to grieve for her bastard boyfriend. Sorry, bastard ex-boyfriend.

  I pressure her into allowing me to do her hair for her, and when I’ve finished she looks wonderful—soft dark curls falling about her face instead of her usual frizz.

  “Good Lord, it looks nothing like me,” she says, admiring herself in the mirror, but she can’t keep the pleasure out of her voice.

  “Makeup time now,” I say, diving for my MAC makeup bag filled with goodies of every different shade.

  “I can’t wear makeup,” she says. “He’ll think I’m a tart. Not that you’re a tart at all,” she’s horrified at what she’s just implied, “you’re so glamorous and sophisticated it suits you, but I couldn’t.”

  “Just a tiny bit,” I plead. “I promise I’ll make you look as if you’re not wearing any.”

  “No foundation?”

  “No foundation.”

  “No eyeshadow?”

  “Just a tiny bit but I swear you won’t see it.”

  “No red lipstick?”

  “What the hell do you think I’d do to you, make you look like a clown? No red lipstick.”

  “OK,” she says grudgingly, “but if I feel really uncomfortable do you mind if I wash it off?”

  She looks gorgeous, and she’s happy, more than happy, delighted with the subtle difference, but there is still a shadow of uncertainty, and I’m not surprised when she turns to face me and says, “Do you really think I should be going out for a drink with him?”

  “You know the answer to that, Mel. Of course I do.”

  “I know,” she sighs, “and I am looking forward to it but I haven’t been out with a man in years, I don’t know what to say, how to act.”

  “It’s just first date nerves, Mel, it happens to everyone. Jesus, I’ve had more first date nerves than you’ve had hot dinners, but you get over it.”

  “Yes, but what if we run out of things to talk about?”

  “Did you run out of things at Andy’s party?”

  “No, but that was different, that wasn’t a date. Oh God,” she suddenly groans, “what do I do if he tries to kiss me?”

  “Mel, I don’t think Martin’s the type of guy who would do that, I really don’t think you need to worry about it.”

  “You’re probably right,” she says looking relieved. “He probably just wants to be friends anyway. He’s so nice though, he’d be a good friend. He’s really nice,” she says again, to herself this time and I can’t help but smile.

  When the doorbell rings I watch as she floats to the door on a cloud of self-esteem, and she and Martin just stand there grinning at one another.

  “Have a good time with Adam. I won’t be late,” she says, giving me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before she follows him out the door, and I go to the mirror and wipe away the faint pale pink lipstick mark she’s left on my cheek.

  So tonight I want to feel good, I want to make an effort, I’m hoping that if I look fantastic on the outside I’ll start feeling fantastic on the inside. Even though I know life doesn’t really work like that.

  I know it’s only Adam, but sometimes you’re not doing it for a man, you’re doing it for yourself, and I’m hoping against hope that this wave of self-pity will recede as quickly as it appeared.

  What to wear? My bedroom cupboard doors are flung open, and the bed is piled high with a confectionery of clothes, but no bright colors, what on earth do you think of me.

  I wouldn’t be caught dead in anything patterned, floral, or bright. My wardrobe blends subtly together—black, white, the occasional navy, and every shade of camel and cream you can imagine. This is what you must wear if you are single, sophisticated, and searching.

  Tonight I’m in a dress mood. A short, flippy navy halterneck which brushes my thighs as I walk and makes me feel unutterably feminine. Navy and white strappy sandals, with my vampish toenails peeping out the ends, daring you to take a closer look.

  My hair is gl
eaming, the streaks of blond catching the light of the last rays of the day, and the finishing touch is a dab of MAC taupe lipstick. I do look good, and what a pity only Adam will see it.

  “You never wear dresses,” is the first thing he says.

  “I know, a bit too feminine for me. But do I look OK, does it suit me?”

  “You look beautiful,” says Adam, as he always does but because he means it I start to feel a tiny bit better. Just a tiny bit though, I’m not that insecure.

  We get into his car, the roof is down, and as we drive through London I stare at other male drivers on the road and note their approving glances. Not that it means much, but every little bit of admiration to feed my depressed ego helps.

  It’s like walking past a building site. There’s only one thing worse than a host of builders whistling and shouting out, “Cor, wouldn’t mind a piece of that,” and that’s walking past a building site and being ignored.

  You steel yourself, body tense as you approach the onslaught, praying they won’t say anything, and then you’re past and the bastards haven’t said a word and your first thought is, Well why the hell not, what’s wrong with me?

  Or perhaps you don’t do that, perhaps it is just me. But tonight I catch the sideways glances, the odd smile of regret that I am with another man in a nicer car, and I hug the glances to myself and start to feel better.

  We pull up outside a little Greek restaurant in Camden Town, and the waiter—a tall, handsome Greek man with the obligatory thick brush mustache, greets us effusively before leading us inside, upstairs, and back outside to the tiny little terrace.

  Small candles flicker on the two tiny tables squeezed together outside and Adam pulls the waiter aside and speaks to him softly before another waiter removes the other table, giving us evil glances for making him work so hard.

  So it’s just us, and I breathe in the clematis climbing up the railings and the heavy night air, which, even in Camden, smells deliciously fresh, and I sit back and smile at Adam, at my old, familiar friend who has been so good to me.