by Jane Green
“Yet here was Adam, a man I felt truly comfortable with, who I knew adored me, and who I never had to worry about. It wasn’t extreme, it was normal, I think that was how I knew, and I felt, what’s the word? Content. I felt content for the first time in my life.
“And now we’ve been married for two years and can I tell you something? I look at Adam, at this forty-seven-year-old man with gray hair and a paunch, and I think he’s a Greek God. I think he’s the best-looking, most wonderful man in the whole world, and I’ve never been happier.
“So you see, I was a Passion Junkie. I still am a Passion Junkie, but the passion grew through love, and it’s the most reassuring kind of passion in the world.” She stops and there’s a silence before she asks gently, “Does that help?”
“More than you’ll ever know. Thank you.” I smile as I put down the phone.
I thought about Jennifer Mason all day. I’m still thinking about her now, so when Mel tells me Martin thinks I should call Adam, I think he’s right.
It’s eight o’clock and I feel like a teenager about to embark on her first ever date. Mel’s staying at Martin’s flat tonight, and I’m so nervous I have to sit down and take deep breaths, to try to quell the butterflies fluttering around my stomach.
And Christ, did it take me forever to choose what to wear. I tried on everything in my wardrobe, threw it off, and tried again. Finally, when I was happy with my navy jersey shirt and long flowing layered skirt, I had to shove all the clothes away, make the bed, make it immaculate.
What the hell am I doing, I thought, even as I pushed the clothes under the bed and out of sight. I’m getting the bedroom ready just in case, said a little voice. Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going to sleep with Adam, and then I started to feel sick with nerves all over again.
But all the time I was getting ready, all the time I was tidying the flat, Jennifer Mason’s voice echoed in my head, only this time it applied to me, to my Adam, to my future. “Here is Adam, a man I feel truly comfortable with, who I know adores me, and who I never have to worry about. It isn’t extreme, it’s normal.”
But could I ever look at Adam and see a Greek God? Shit, I don’t think I’ll think about that one just at the moment, I think I’ll just pour myself another glass of wine and wait for the doorbell.
When it eventually rings I walk very slowly to the front door, and after I open it I see it isn’t this terrible thing on the doorstep, it’s Adam, my old, reliable Adam.
Who was it said there’s nothing to fear but fear itself? How true, I think, as I stand there and wonder how we will greet each other. Normally I get a bear hug, but we’re both awkward, and Adam bends to kiss my left cheek, as I stretch to kiss his, and our noses clash because we had been heading straight for one another’s mouths, and we both laugh at the sheer awkwardness of this meaningless kiss hello.
He gives me a hug, and suddenly he feels different. It’s not just Adam anymore, it’s a man, a man I could be having a relationship with, and I move my hand slightly on his back, just checking, just feeling what there is underneath, what his body might feel like.
“Can I get you a drink?” I feel ridiculous, like a hostess inviting a stranger into her home, and yet the easy intimacy we’ve always shared seems to have disappeared, and Adam feels much like a stranger.
By telling me he was in love with me, Adam changed. Superficially of course he’s still the same Adam, but inside have I ever really known him? Have I ever really known what he was thinking or feeling? Quite obviously no, which accounts for my watching his every movement, trying to find some familiarity.
I pour him a glass of wine and we sit on opposite sofas, facing each other, while I draw my legs up underneath me, an upstanding fetal position, a position of comfort.
“So how have you been?” he says.
“Fine,” I shrug, “really fine. You know, same old life, lunch with the girls, wankers at work, Mel being here which I love.”
“And how’s it going with that guy she went on a date with?”
“Martin. It’s going fantastically, they’re seeing each other all the time and she’s really happy. You wouldn’t recognize her.” I tell him about the changes in Mel and we both start to relax. We’re talking about something other than “us”—the “us” that is so comfortable for Mel, the same “us” that is so difficult for Adam and me.
“That’s great,” he says. “That’s just great.” And he looks down at his glass and then back at me. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know. I’ve missed you too.” I have. Desperately. All the times those stupid little things, or funny little things have happened at work, I’ve picked up the phone to call Adam, to make him laugh, and just as I’ve picked up the receiver I’ve remembered, and it’s been awful.
The silence between us stretches out, and I sit there trying desperately to think of something to say except I can’t think of anything. I can’t bloody think of a way to form the words I want to say, which is that I love him, but I’m not in love with him, but I’d like to try. I’d like to see what could happen. I’d like to be another Jennifer Mason.
“Why am I here, Tash?” He’s not looking at me as he says this and my heart goes out to him. He looks like a little boy, scared, unsure, and I just want to put my arms around him and cuddle his fears away. But do I want to make love with him? Let’s not think about that just yet.
“This has been the most impossible three weeks of my life, Ad. Jesus, this was harder than the run up to my bloody degree, so firstly I want to say thank you for causing all this misery.”
He smiles, and I think he senses that it’s all going to be OK.
“I love you, Ad, you know that. I’m not in love with you, but maybe it could work. I don’t know, but I suppose there’s only one way to find out, so I guess,” I pause, not quite knowing how to say it, “I guess the answer to your question is yes.”
“What was the question?” He’s smiling broadly now, all the nervousness disappeared.
“I don’t know, but yes, I’d like to give it a go.”
“Give what a go?” He’s teasing me now because he can see I’m still a bit awkward.
“Give ‘us’ a go.” There. I said it. The dreaded “us,” and you know what? It doesn’t sound nearly as bad once it’s out there. In fact it sounds quite nice. Better than quite nice. It sounds comfortable.
Adam stands up and comes to sit next to me. He takes my hand and just sits there, holding my hand and smiling at me. I sit there and look at my long thin fingers resting in his big bearlike paw and I squeeze his hand very quickly.
I know the kiss is coming, the kiss is coming. Shit, the kiss is nearly upon us. What am I going to do? But when Adam bends his head down he’s still smiling, and he very slowly kisses me on the lips then sits back, smiling some more, and just looks at me.
“How was that?” he says.
“OK,” I’m nodding my head. “It was really OK.”
And he bends his head again and we kiss again, for longer this time, but no tongues, all right? Then he sits back and looks at me some more.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks.
“Nope. I’m not sure at all, but can we do it again just to find out?”
This time he kisses me for a lot longer. Short soft kisses on the lips, then the corners of my mouth, then back to the lips. My eyes are closed as I try and familiarize myself with the odd sensation of kissing Adam, and the more he kisses me, the more I want to carry on.
And wouldn’t you know it, I’m the first one to venture out a tentative tongue, to lick just the outside of his upper lip. He carries on kissing me softly, moving down to kiss the nape of my neck and I think, Jesus, where in the hell did Adam learn to be so good at this?
And then he comes back to my lips and licks mine, and I open his mouth so our tongues are intertwined and you know what? It’s bloody nice, this is.
And he continues to kiss my neck, and each kiss moves farther down my body, and he gently pushes m
e back until I’m lying on the sofa leaning against the cushions, and he’s half lying on top of me, the lower half of his body kneeling on the floor.
And I open my eyes to see Adam unbuttoning my shirt and slowly kissing his way down across my chest and I have to close my eyes immediately, I can’t watch this or I won’t want to go through with it. I wouldn’t have the courage, but with my eyes closed I can pretend.
Pretend what exactly? That it’s Andrew, that it’s David? No, just pretend that it isn’t me and my best friend.
This would be better with the lights off, is my first thought. Thank God I tidied the bedroom, is the second.
“Hold on,” I whisper, standing up and wrapping my now-unbuttoned shirt around me. “Let’s go to bed,” and I take his hand and walk into the bedroom feeling as if this isn’t real somehow, that this is a dream, or maybe a big joke.
I light a candle which flickers soft shadows on the walls, and then I’m lying on my bed and Adam has spread my shirt so that my body is exposed, and he pulls the fabric of my bra—not La Perla, Marks & Spencer—aside, and he gently starts to suck my right nipple.
Where in the hell did Adam learn to be so good at this?
He moves up and kisses me on the lips and I roughly unbutton his shirt, desperate to know what Adam feels like, how his skin will feel when it’s pressed up against mine. I pull it off his shoulders and it catches at the sleeve which Adam tries to undo but fails.
We both laugh, but behind the laughter I can just about see that Adam’s eyes are glazed with lust, and eventually the shirt is off and I slip my own off together with my bra.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs as he moves down my body, kissing my stomach, unzipping the zip at the side of my skirt before abandoning it and approaching from the other direction.
Sliding my skirt up, moving his hands up my legs, stopping just as he hits the top of my thigh and then moving his hand back down to my knee. Closer, closer. Back up my leg, a little higher this time. Nearly there. And then back up, closer. I moan.
When in the hell did Adam learn to be so good at this?
Through the cotton of my knickers he teases my clitoris. Moving his fingers from side to side, he just avoids it, and I arch my back and press into his hand.
And then he moves the elastic to one side, and slowly, tentatively touches the spot, and it is like a bolt of lightning going through my body. Starts to rub, gently, wetting his fingers by plunging them into his mouth, licking them, looking at me as he continues to slowly rub.
Rolling my nipple around his fingers with the other hand, rolling and rubbing for what seems like hours.
And then I pull my clothes off fast and furiously, and lie on top of him, feeling my skin on his skin, kissing his big chest, his chest covered with unfamiliar blond hair, and I move down, hovering above the waistband.
His cock is straining to get out, pushing against the worn denim of his jeans, and I unbutton his fly. Big, thick, in my hand, my long thin fingers stroking. Adam lying back with his hand over his eyes, gasping.
Kissing him, engulfing him. How he smells, how he feels, sucking, licking, stroking, straining.
And then it’s my turn, as Adam rolls on to me, moves down my body, and I have my hand over my eyes as he laps at my clitoris, sucking, flicking, big broad strokes, small hard flicks.
“Inside me. Inside me. I need to feel you inside me.”
The awkward condom moment (I have some in the drawer in my bedside table), and then filling me up, moving slowly on top of me. Propped up on his arms looking at me with such love, kissing me with such tenderness.
And afterward, as he showers me with kisses and whispers that he loves me I prop myself up on one hand and look him in the eye: “Where in the hell did you learn to be so good at this?”
17
When I was sixteen I used to spend hours daydreaming about the Prince Charming who would whisk me away to a world of romance.
We’d walk hand in hand along white sand beaches while waves crashed around our ankles. We’d lie entwined in Hyde Park, him covering me with kisses while people walked past and envied us our love. We’d go and buy a Christmas tree together, laughing and joking as we dragged it up the stairs to our house.
Bloody pathetic, isn’t it? I don’t need you to tell me that real life isn’t like that, that love, even when you find it, rarely echoes the love that we’re expected to believe in from films.
And now I have Adam, and the two of us together are a world away from my teenage expectations. Adam and I are friends. We are also lovers. Adam is in love with me and I am not in love with Adam.
But who knows how you are supposed to feel when you are in love? Maybe I am in love, maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Then I think back to Simon, to the way he made me feel, the excitement, the ripping our clothes off, the highs and the lows, and I worry that I haven’t got this anymore. That I’ll never have it again.
I have become a Jennifer Mason, but I’m not sure it’s enough.
You want to know what our relationship is like? Much in the way the movies, chick flicks, always tend to splice together a montage of slushy clips to show romance, I will put together a montage of everyday clips to show you how we are together.
Maybe you will think it is love. Maybe you will think it is enough.
Clip number one:
I am at work, head down, busily beavering away on my next script. A voice says softly in my ear, “I’d like to talk to you about the item on date rape.”
I look up and it’s David. Standing way too close for comfort. Invading my personal space. His classically handsome face looks almost distorted at such close sight, and I involuntarily swivel my chair to the side, I am not comfortable with such close proximity.
“Sure. Do you want to have a chat now?”
“If that’s OK.”
The phone rings and I go to pick it up. “Excuse me a sec, David. Hello, Breakfast Break? . . . Would you mind if I called you back, I’m in a meeting. Thanks. Bye.”
I swivel round to David. “Sorry about that. What’s the problem?”
The phone rings again and David looks exasperated. “Tasha, why don’t we go somewhere a bit more quiet, get away from these phones.”
I stand up and pick up a notebook, a pen, and the script and we head downstairs to the canteen. As we walk past the other producers and researchers in the open plan office they watch us with disgruntled stares.
It isn’t usual for the hosts to request chats with the producers on a one-to-one basis during the week. If they have problems they usually moan to the executive producer, who then has to call the producer into his office, close the door and gently suggest a few changes.
I know this and the others know this. I know what they are thinking—that David is singling me out for preferential treatment—and they are right, and as I walk along I can’t help but feel slightly awkward, conscious of the stares, the knives hovering above my back.
Because television is a bitchy place. You may not know this, certainly if you’re lucky enough not to work in media, but television is not glamour and fizz, not by a long shot.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been to a party and someone has asked what I do. When they hear those seemingly magic words, television producer, their eyes become large and they say the same thing every time, “God, how glamorous.” But it’s not glamorous, it’s work, and the bitching and backstabbing are the bonuses that no one tells you about.
And as I walk across the office with David a step behind me, I can already sense the huddles of people, “Where are they going?” I can almost hear them whisper to one another. “What does he want with her?”
We sit in the canteen with our cups of coffee and David asks me who the girl is who is coming in to talk about date rape. He is worried about it being prejudicial, because the case has not yet come to trial and I reassure him we are changing her name and filming her in darkened silhouette, but he knows this, he damn well knows this.
“So how about you, Tasha, how are you getting on?”
“Er, fine.” What is he talking about?
“And how’s your love life?”
I laugh, “My love life? What on earth are you talking about, David, why would you want to know about my love life?”
He doesn’t even blush. “Come on, Tasha, you’re famous for your men, we’re always hearing about your escapades.”
“Who the hell from?”
“Everyone. You’re the envy of half the women who work here, you seem to have all the men chasing you.”
Now I blush. “That’s ridiculous, David. Anyway, I might have had a bit of a wild past but I’m settled now, practically married.”
He blanches, but ever so slightly. “You? I thought you were the archetypal single girl.”
“Even the archetypal single girl is allowed to break her archetype once in a while.”
He laughs but pushes the point. “Are you really going to get married?”
I shrug. I know the answer to this is no, at least, not to Adam, but I hardly need to share this with David. “We’ll see.”
“But do you think you’d manage to stay faithful?”
“Why David, I’m a one-man woman.”
“Don’t you mean one man at a time?”
“You said that, not me.” So he’s flirting with me. So what? Now that I’m here I’m quite enjoying it. Jesus, no one’s flirted with me for ages and I had forgotten, I really had, the effect I have on men.
Not that Adam’s the possessive type, the few parties we go to he’s happy for me to wander off and I could flirt if I wanted to, but truth be told there haven’t been many men I’ve wanted to flirt with. But this is quite nice. I look coyly at David from under my lashes and say, “Are you the faithful type, then?”
He looks at me for a few seconds and says slowly, “What do you think?”
“I think you have affairs.” In fact I know he has affairs. Suzy, the old makeup girl, got the sack when she made the mistake of falling in love with him during their affair.