Straight Talking

by Jane Green

  “But how do you feel?” Mel’s skills as a therapist are coming into play.

  “Confused. And angry.” I stop to think. “And betrayed. And flattered. And confused.”

  “Why betrayed?” Andy doesn’t understand.

  “I don’t know whether betrayed is the right word, it’s probably too strong, but I feel as if our friendship’s been a sham. I mean, I know it hasn’t, but I just think of all those times I’ve talked to Adam about everything, and all the time he had an ulterior motive.”

  “Don’t you think that’s being a bit harsh?” Mel asks gently.

  “But it’s true, and also I’m embarrassed, I mean I’ve told him so much about me and about how I feel and it must have been killing him, hearing me talk about these other men.”

  “So you feel his pain as well?” Mel.

  “Yes,” I shrug and look at her, “I suppose I do.”

  Emma arrives and we all kiss hello as Andy determines to be the first to explain: “Adam told Tasha he was in love with her last night and she doesn’t know what to do.”

  “Thank you, Andy,” I say through gritted teeth, “but I can talk for myself.”

  “Sorry,” she grumbles, “I’m just concerned.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. What am I going to do?”

  “You do love him, don’t you?” asks Emma.

  “Well, of course I do, but I’m not in love with him.”

  “But those feelings of lust don’t last,” Emma says earnestly, “and friendship is the most important thing. That’s what keeps a relationship going, that’s what I have with Richard.” She stops while the waitress comes to take our order and we all studiously scan the menus and tell her what we’re having for lunch.

  “When I met Richard I thought he was one of the best-looking men I’d ever met, really, he swept me off my feet. Now I look at him and I see Richard. I don’t see him as good-looking, he’s just Richard, but because we still have so much to talk about, we still have so much in common, we’re together.”

  “No, I disagree,” says Andy. “I think passion is vital. If you don’t have passion from the very beginning, you’re far more likely to look for it later on.”

  “I’m not sure whether that’s really true,” interjects Mel, looking doubtful.

  “It is true, I’m telling you. I have so many friends at work who are having affairs and how do you think it starts? It starts because they got married to the first men that asked them. They weren’t passionate about these men but they’d reached an age or a time in their life when they wanted to get married, and they married men who would be good husbands and good fathers.

  “And what happens? A few years down the line they start to look elsewhere for that excitement, that lust, that old stomach-churning feeling that I would rather die than live without. At least if the passion is there in the beginning you always have the memory which is enough to keep you faithful.”

  “Sorry, Andy, but I don’t think passion is that important,” says Mel. “I tend to agree with Emma. Look at couples whose children have grown up and left home. The passion, if there ever was any, has long since disappeared and the people that divorce are the ones who find they don’t have anything in common anymore.

  “For years they talked about the children, they went on family holidays together, the children were the one thing they had in common, so when the children go the marriage breaks up. But the ones who stay together after the children have gone are the ones who were friends in the first place. They love each other’s company because they have become each other’s best friends. They like doing the same things, going to the same places, and they end up with the strongest marriages.”

  We all sit in silence for a while, thinking about what Mel has just said, and each of us wishing that we had that sort of marriage.

  “I’m not saying friendship isn’t important,” says Andy finally, and slightly defensively, “but you need passion as well. They’re equal.”

  “Oh, God knows,” says Emma. “Who the hell knows what love is anyway?”

  “Well,” I venture, “I read an article once, an interview with William Wharton and, if I remember correctly, just before his daughter got married she rang him and asked him whether he knew what love was.

  “He said as far as he could see love was passion, admiration, and respect. If you have two of those it’s enough. If you have all three you don’t have to die before you go to heaven.”

  “But which two?” asks Andy.

  “I know,” I sigh. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out for years.”

  “I think admiration and respect would be enough,” says Mel. “There are thousands of women who have fallen in love, with their bosses, for example, because they are men in positions of power. Because these women admire and respect them.”

  “No way,” says Andy. “Passion and respect. You can’t live without passion. I tried it once, Tasha, believe me it’s bloody impossible.” She looks around the table. “Did I ever tell you about Stephen?” We all shake our heads while I silently smile at the fact that even now, even though it’s my problem we’re discussing, Andy still has to be the center of attention.

  “I met Stephen when I was twenty-six. He was thirty-two, not that good-looking, certainly not my type but a really lovely guy and very rich. He fell madly in love with me and kept pestering me to give him a chance.

  “I wasn’t into him physically, but I liked him as a person and we got on really well, so eventually I said yes, I’d go on one date with him but that was it. He came to collect me in his black Porsche convertible, and when I got in the car there was a huge bunch of lilies on the seat for me. I’d told him they were my favorite flowers.”

  We are all listening intently, because Andy, despite her faults, is a hell of a good storyteller.

  “He drove up the A40 and refused to let me know where we were going, and eventually we left the motorway and pulled in to Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons.”

  “Le what?” says Mel.

  “Oh,” sighs Emma, “Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons. It’s my favorite restaurant, it’s Raymond Blanc’s restaurant in Oxfordshire, a beautiful country house and the food is exquisite.”

  “Your favorite restaurant?” I can’t help but ask with a grin. “How many times have you been there?”

  Emma blushes. “Just once, actually. But I loved it and I’m trying to get Richard to take me for my birthday but it’s hugely expensive.”

  If Emma thinks it’s hugely expensive then it must be a fortune, because Emma doesn’t settle for less than the very best. Slumming it at this brasserie for our Saturday lunches is about as low as she’ll go.

  “Exactly,” said Andy, desperate to get on with her story. “It is amazing, and it is hugely expensive, but money was no object. We had a perfect evening, and all night I was thinking, shit, if only I fancied him.”

  “And then what?” Mel looks like a little girl who’s being told a fairy story, which in a way I suppose it is, because that world is so alien to her sensible middle-class upbringing.

  “He was a perfect gentleman, he drove me home and dropped me off, which was a relief because I didn’t want to ask him in, I couldn’t stand the thought of kissing his thick, fleshy lips.” She says these last three words slowly and with relish, knowing that we’ll all cringe with disgust, which is exactly what we do.

  “The next day he sent another bouquet of flowers with a note saying thank you for a wonderful time and would I be free to go to the opera with him. Of course I went, and he had his own box and we sat and drank champagne all night, and afterward he took me to The Ivy for dinner.”

  “What did he do?” God, I’m so superficial.

  “I’m not entirely sure, something in entertainment, but I think most of his money had been inherited. Anyway, he knew loads of people at The Ivy, all these celebrities were coming up and saying hello to him, and I started to really enjoy this lifestyle.

  “The only problem was him. Every time I look
ed at him, and believe me, he wasn’t a pretty sight, I just gagged.”

  “Describe him,” says Mel, wanting every detail.

  “He was about five feet, six inches, and large. I mean really large.”

  “You mean fat,” I laugh, because none of us ever want to use the f-word, even if we’re talking about someone we despise.

  “I suppose so. And he was balding, and he had these disgusting lips. He dressed beautifully, or as beautifully as you can when you’re a fat bastard, but I really loved him as a person, we got on so well, and I wanted to fancy him, I was trying to fancy him. Eventually, after he’d taken me out for about three weeks he invited himself in for coffee and I couldn’t say no. He came up behind me in the kitchen, put his arms around my waist, and kissed the back of my neck. I froze.

  “I had to kiss him didn’t I, and it was horrible.”

  “So you never saw him again?”

  “No, that was the thing. I kept on hoping that it would grow, that one day I’d wake up and fancy him but it just got worse and worse. I adored him but every time we went out I’d know that toward the end of the evening I’d have to kiss him and I would be dreading it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “In the end I told him I’d gotten back with my ex-boyfriend, and that I was really sorry but I had to give this relationship a go. I was just so bloody relieved I’d never have to kiss him again.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I never heard from him again, and then a year later I was flicking through Hello! and there he was, getting married to this stunning blonde model before flying off on their honeymoon on his private jet.”

  “You’re kidding,” we all gasp.

  “Bloody wish I was, but she was obviously a woman who didn’t give a rat’s ass about passion, and I’d put money on her being unfaithful. I mean, what sort of a marriage could it be?”

  “Probably a good one,” says Mel. “OK, perhaps it’s a business venture, she’ll supply him with a son and heir et cetera in return for a wonderful lifestyle, but perhaps she met a man she liked, a man she could be happy with, and you never know, maybe she found herself falling in love with him.”

  “With those lips. Yeuch.” Andy makes gagging noises and we all laugh.

  “But Adam doesn’t have thick fleshy lips,” Mel says, when Andy’s stopped retching. “Adam’s eminently fanciable.”

  “But Tasha doesn’t fancy him, and that’s the key issue.” Andy’s refusing to let it drop and I’ve got to be honest with you, I’m more confused than when we started.

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “I just don’t know.”

  16

  Great. I really need to bump into a practical stranger first thing in the morning when I look like shit and I’m half asleep.

  I get up this morning to go to the bathroom and who should I walk slap bang into as I’m opening the bathroom door? Well, who else? Bloody Martin. I mean, I don’t mind that he’s stayed, I think he’s a really nice guy but this is my flat for Christ’s sake, not a bloody hotel.

  But what do I do? Despite being half-asleep I stand there on the landing and make small talk with him before offering him a cup of tea.

  “That would be lovely,” he says with a smile. “I’ll wake Mel.”

  So I grouch downstairs and slap three mugs on the surface while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil.

  “I’ll just leave them here,” I say, putting two mugs on the floor outside Mel’s bedroom door, but then Mel shouts, “Don’t be silly, come in.”

  So I walk into Mel’s bedroom, which also happens to be my spare room in my flat, and there they are, cozy as anything, snuggled up together in bed. Martin has quite a nice body, which surprises me, it has to be said, and Mel’s looking disgustingly sexy for first thing in the morning.

  Yes, Mel has succumbed to the thrills of a new relationship. Not only has she had a new haircut, she’s also had a makeup lesson, and she’s growing in confidence by the day. Plus, what she’s eating would hardly sustain a rabbit, and the pounds have dropped off her.

  She looks fantastic. She looks like she belongs, and although I’m ever so slightly jealous of this new Mel, ever so slightly missing my old scatty Mel with the frizzy mass of hair and no makeup, I’m also thrilled. Thrilled to see her become the woman she’s always wanted to be. A woman like the rest of us.

  I loved Mel as she was. I knew she was good enough, better in fact, than the rest of us, but Mel didn’t think so and that was the problem. Her newfound confidence is shining out, and that’s what I’m thrilled about.

  Mel pats the bed “Come and talk to us.” Us. Already. Two weeks and it’s “us,” but of course I sit and when she opens her arms to give me a hug I readily succumb, eager to somehow belong to this “us,” which Mel seems to sense.

  “Martin thinks you should call Adam.”

  It’s been three weeks since I talked to Adam. Three weeks of confusion. Sometimes I wake up and think, yes, I’m going to go for it, I’ll give it a whirl and see if passion grows, and other times I wake up and think, no, I can’t sleep with Adam, it would be tantamount to incest.

  I even did a call-in on the show to try to solve my dilemma. Outside input is what I need, I decided; stories about other women, women who I don’t know. I need to know whether passion can grow.

  So we did it. Passion Junkies, we called it, which went down a treat with David and Annalise, neither of whom had heard the expression before.

  “Are you a Passion Junkie?” asked Annalise, grinning inanely into the camera. “Do you go from one passionate relationship to the next, and wonder why none of them are Mr. Right?” added David by her side.

  “Can we live without passion, and more importantly, should we?” said Annalise while David looked at her and ad-libbed, “How about you, Annalise, are you a Passion Junkie?”

  “Oooh, David, I’d never say no to a bit of impromptu passion.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he said with a chuckle, doubtless fueling more ridiculous rumors of an off-screen affair. In case you’re wondering whether the rumors are true, there’s about as much chance of David and Annalise sleeping together as me getting married within the month. Exactly.

  “If you’re addicted to passion, perhaps you’ve managed to break that addiction. Tell us how. Ring us here on Breakfast Break, you know the number, 01393 939393.”

  The calls came in thick and fast. There were women who fell head over heels in love at first sight, and were still blissfully happily married twenty years later.

  There were women who married their best male friends, who didn’t have passion, but who were still blissfully happily married twenty years later.

  And there were some people, both women and men, who didn’t have passion but started the relationship anyway, who just fell into a situation without realizing what was happening, and who gradually fell in love. Who gradually felt passion.

  Did it help? Did it hell. There I was thinking some wise woman living in the depths of Somerset would phone up and say, “Tasha, passion can grow, give him a chance.”

  But after the program there was a phone call that caught my eye, except she didn’t even get put through because we ran out of time. I went up to the call-in room after the show and was scanning the calls we’d gotten and there was something about this woman, maybe the fact that she was thirty, she lived in London, and her husband’s name was Adam, that made me think she might have the answer.

  I called her. I know there was no reason for the call but I rang anyway to apologize for not putting her on air.

  “That’s OK,” said Jennifer Mason, in a voice that immediately gave her away as someone who came from a similar background to mine. Someone perhaps much like me.

  “I was quite relieved, actually. I wanted to share my story because I thought it might help anyone who wasn’t sure, but as I was waiting on the line I suddenly thought that I might not want to tell people because Adam doesn’t know. To this day he doesn’
t know how I felt at the beginning.”

  “I know you might think this odd, but I’d really like to hear your story. Can you tell me what happened?”

  She laughed and said, “I thought there was an ulterior motive behind this call. Sure I’ll tell you, just don’t tell anyone else.” We both laughed and she started to tell me.

  “I had rented an office in the East End, in one of those buildings where they rent out serviced units, and Adam had the unit below me. I bumped into him in the café down the road, and he recognized me. We had a chat, and that was that, I never gave him a second thought.

  “Adam wasn’t my type at all, you see. I’d always gone out with these good-looking, successful men, and Adam was none of these things. He was forty-five then, completely gray, with a large paunch. I never gave it a second thought.

  “He started to pop into my office regularly. I suppose I knew he liked me but I never encouraged anything other than friendship. We were both single, and soon we became friends, seeing each other on the weekends, and popping out for a meal after work.

  “I started to like him more and more, only as a friend, though, and he was becoming a very important part of my life. One night I invited him over to dinner, and he told me he felt more for me. I remember sitting there thinking, well, he’s not my type, but he was so lovely to me, he had always treated me so well I just thought, why not?

  “I slept with him that night, the end of a long period of celibacy for me, and I remember waking up in the morning and feeling really proud of myself. Not that it was anything earth-shattering, but it was nice. Comfortable.

  “As soon as we embarked upon a physical relationship my feelings for Adam started to change. It took time, but after a few months I realized I was in love with him, but not the sort of passionate rollercoaster of emotions that I’d experienced in the past.

  “In the past, you see, I had lived my life through extremes. When the man of the moment phoned I would be as high as a kite, and if he didn’t, I would spend the night in tears.