Straight Talking

by Jane Green

  The others arrive, Emma first, then Andy, and within minutes we are shouting across the table, giggling like schoolgirls, each wanting to be the first to tell their stories.

  Emma reaches into her Gucci bag and pulls out a selection of bridal magazines. “Most of it’s pretty disgusting,” she giggles, “but I’ve got a few ideas from them and I wanted to know what you think.”

  She spreads them out on the table, and being the girls that we are, we ooh and aah at some of the pictures, and shriek with horror at others.

  “That’s the dress I want,” says Andy suddenly, pointing at a dress that’s so tight it’s more of a condom than a wedding dress.

  “You getting married? I don’t somehow think so.” I say.

  “You never know,” Andy suddenly blushes, “you just never know when you’ll meet the man of your dreams.”

  “Andy, you meet the man of your dreams every week.”

  “Yes, well.” She doesn’t say anything, and we all look at one another.

  “Andy?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Who is it this time?”

  “I know,” I shout. “His name’s Mark.”

  “Tasha,” she hisses, before saying modestly, “his name is Mark, he’s forty and he’s an accountant.”

  “An accountant?” We all look horrified. “You? With an accountant?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” She looks seriously pissed off.

  “Nothing,” I say hastily. “It’s just it’s, it’s so unlike you.”

  “Well, maybe it is but he seems really nice, and he’s nice to me, so I’m taking it slowly and we’ll see what happens. It’s too early to think about the future.”

  I’m speechless, I’m truly, truly speechless, and it seems, from the deafening silence that follows this speech, that everyone feels the same way.

  Andy has always vowed never to go out with a lawyer or an accountant. “Oh please,” she’d always joke, “too boring.” Andy has never described someone as “really nice.” They have always been gorgeous, or divine, or drop-dead handsome. Andy has never, ever, taken it slowly, nor said it’s too early to think about the future.

  Maybe she knows, I think. Maybe it’s true what they say, those married friends of mine who are so happy, that you don’t know how you know until you meet them, but then you always know.

  Maybe for some people it does happen instantly, and perhaps this is why Andy is being unusually reticent. Maybe for others, others like myself, it takes time to realize that you have found what you have been looking for.

  We don’t pursue Mark, Andy obviously doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, and we move smoothly on to other things. We talk about men, naturally, about work, about emotions, about people, about life.

  And right at the end of our lunch, when we’re leaning back in our chairs, clutching our stomachs and once again moaning that we’ve eaten too much, we talk about passion.

  “I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently,” says Andy, looking first at me, then at Mel. “I think you’re both right, and I think I was probably wrong. I still don’t believe that you can live without it, I still maintain that admiration and respect aren’t enough, but I do now think that passion can grow. That sometimes it grows where you least expect it, and when that happens it endures far longer.”

  She looks at me and smiles, and I smile back. We hold each other’s gaze for a very long time.

  For someone who usually spends hours getting ready, I can’t believe I’m dressed, made-up, and ready to go with half an hour to spare. I have to take my mind off this, off my evening with Adam, what am I going to do for the next half hour?

  Television. I sit and channel surf, because I can’t bloody concentrate on a thing, but at least I can look at pictures rather than think of what I’m going to say to Adam.

  I am so nervous, but so excited. I’m going to see the man I love, and I’m going to tell him that I love him and everything’s going to be OK. Better than OK. Magnificent. A happy ever after.

  Time to go, I drive to the café in a haze, and then I walk in and he’s not there, but I’m early so I take my cappuccino and sit down at a table near the front. Don’t want him to miss me, I want to be the first thing he sees when he walks in. My Adam, my love.

  God, will you listen to me? I can’t believe what I sound like, so slushy, so soppy, so unlike me. What is going on? Yes, sure, I was like this with Simon, but I never believed Adam could make me feel like this.

  I mean, he was always the one telling me he loved me. I never said anything back, other than the occasional “I know.” And I thrived on being adored, I never felt I needed to give anything back.

  I’ve always believed that in relationships one is always the lover and one is always the loved. It can shift all the time, but there will never be two lovers at one time, or two loved. In the past I have always been the lover. Always and without exception. Until Adam, when I was the loved. Always and without exception.

  And now it has shifted and again I am the lover, but not the insecure, needy, jealous lover of my old relationships. I am the lover, but a strong, secure, and comfortable lover. A lover who is proud of what she is. Who wants to show just how much she can love, how much she is capable of.

  For God’s sake, Adam, where the hell are you?

  And then I see him, parking the car, looking up and down the road as he crosses, walking in, and my face lights up. I expect his to do the same, and I could swear I see a flash when he first sees me, but then it blanks over and he walks slowly over, cool, calm, and collected. Nothing like the Adam I know. The Adam I thought I knew.

  I have to hold myself in check, because this wasn’t the way I planned it. I thought he’d walk in, see me, and we’d run into each other’s arms like in the movies. Still hoping for that Hollywood love affair, but this isn’t anything like that. This is wrong. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen and I’m thrown off guard.

  The words I was going to say, something along the lines of, I love you, I miss you, I want to be with you forever, those words that were to be spoken while watching his face light up seem wholly inappropriate now, and I’ve got to be honest here, I’m stuck.

  “Hi,” he says. “You look well.”

  “Thank you. So do you.” He’s not supposed to say I look well, for Christ’s sake. He’s supposed to say I look beautiful, gorgeous, adorable.

  “So,” he says finally, jauntily, not a shadow of the Adam I last saw, the Adam that was in pain, that cried into my shoulder and told me he’d wait.

  “So,” I say back, not having a clue what to do. “So how’s work?”

  “Oh fine, fine. Been working really hard, it’s going well.” That breezy tone again, and I can’t help myself, the whine that comes out in my voice, “Where’ve you been? I’ve been calling and calling and you haven’t been there.”

  “Oh, out and about. You know how it is.” No, I don’t know how it is actually. I know you, but I don’t know what this is about. Where does this tone of voice come from? When did you learn to be so breezy? When did you stop caring? Have you stopped caring?

  “So how’s Andrew?” he says finally, after we both sit there stirring our coffees and wondering what the hell to say next, how in the hell we’re going to break the ice.

  “I haven’t seen him, Adam. I don’t want to see him.”

  “Really?” he says with a heavy dollop of sarcasm. “That wasn’t the way it looked last time I saw you two together.”

  “Jesus, Adam. What is this? The last time I saw you, you told me you’d wait for me, that I could have time, and all I’ve thought about since then is you, and I’ve come here today to tell you that and it’s like talking to a stranger. You’re acting like a total bastard.” Oh shit, oh shit, here come the tears. No. Go away, don’t roll down my cheeks, I don’t want him to see this. Thank God. They’ve gone, but not before he saw my eyes swimming in them.

  His face softens. His voice softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to b
e like this. I was in so much pain when I last saw you, and after that I got angry. I was so furious with you, at the way you had treated me, and I’m still angry. I still can’t quite believe what you did.”

  My voice catches in my throat. “You mean you’re not waiting for me. It’s over, isn’t it?”

  Adam doesn’t say anything, and while he sits there sighing I start to feel so sick I have to physically put my hand on my stomach to settle it.

  “I don’t know anymore,” he says, sighing again. “A lot has happened in the three weeks we’ve been apart. When I moved my stuff out, when we talked, I did think I would wait. I thought you were worth waiting for. But now . . .” He tails off, shrugging.

  Do I tell him how I feel? Will that change anything? Will it matter to him?

  “Ad,” I say softly, hoping that the familiarity will remind him of what it was like, being with me. “Ad, I’ve been a complete bitch to you. I’ve acted appallingly, but in some sick sort of way we needed this to happen because I needed to realize how much I love you.” I stop, formulating the words in my head before I say them, testing them on my tongue before they leave my lips. “How much I’m in love with you.”

  He looks up at me, confusion in his eyes. Yes, this is the first time he’s heard the words, but I’m not sure it makes any difference now. I’m not sure it isn’t too late.

  “I have never been happier in my life than when I was with you,” I carry on. “But I had this ridiculous notion that there was something missing. But since we’ve been apart I’ve realized that there isn’t anything missing. That what I have with you is all I ever wanted. God, Adam, this is so hard for me.”

  “You don’t realize what you’ve got until it’s gone,” he says softly, almost to himself.

  “Yes, that’s exactly it. I didn’t realize, and now I do, and I just want to be with you.”

  “It isn’t as easy as that.” He sighs again, and runs his fingers through his hair, and the thought strikes me from nowhere, a thought so terrible that I almost can’t believe it, but it’s out there, before I have a chance to think it through, the thought is out there.

  “You’ve met someone else.” It comes out in a whisper, and Adam does the worst thing he could possibly do. He doesn’t reply, and I feel as if my entire world is collapsing about my ears.

  “You’ve met someone else.” I repeat it, because I can’t quite believe it.

  “Not exactly.” He stops. “But sort of.”

  “Who is she?” I really don’t want to know, but I have to.

  “Someone at work.”

  “How do you feel about her?”

  “It’s not what it sounds.”

  What does he mean, what does he mean?

  “What is it then? Tell me.”

  “It’s Cathy.” Cathy. I rack my brains, who is Cathy? And then I remember, she’s a design assistant at work, an assistant that Adam rarely spoke about, other than to mention that she had a crush on him, and that it was sweet.

  And I ignored the threat because it wasn’t a threat. She’s only young, what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? And Adam was too in love with me to even look at another woman, or so I thought.

  “Young Cathy?” I’m looking at him with horror.

  He nods.

  “But you were never interested in her, she’s far too young for you.”

  “She’s not that young, she’s twenty-four.”

  “So, you’re going out with her? You’re sleeping with her? What exactly is the relationship between you?”

  “We went out for a drink last week, we’d been working late on a new project, and we ended up getting very drunk, and she told me she’d always fancied me.”

  “She’s not that young then, if she’s forthright enough to make that sort of confession.” Bitch.

  “No, she’s not that young. And I’m not really sure how it happened but she ended up back at my flat,” oh shit, I don’t want to hear this, I don’t want to hear that Adam made love to someone else. Please tell me you didn’t, please tell me you changed your mind, you couldn’t go through with it. Lie if you have to, just don’t tell me you slept with her, “and we ended up in bed.”

  He looks up at me then, guilty, expecting, perhaps, an onslaught, but what can I say? Adam has slept with someone else. I had the bloody decency to pull out at the last minute, but he didn’t. There is nothing to say, and the silence seems to stretch out and out and out.

  “I felt terrible the next morning,” he says, as if it’s some sort of consolation, which in a very tiny way it is. “I didn’t want her to be there, I didn’t want her in my bed.”

  “But I suppose you fucked her again, just for the hell of it.”

  He flushes.

  “I thought so. So what’s happened since then?”

  “That’s just it. Nothing has, but she keeps asking me when she can see me, and I really don’t know how I feel about her. She’s very sweet, but I’m not sure I’m ready to get involved.”

  Are you ready to get involved with me? Despite feeling absolutely sick, I still want you, Adam, I forgive you.

  Adam has to do this. He has to absolve his guilt by sharing it with me, unloading his burden. I am stronger than Adam, and while I never fucked Andrew, never allowed him to enter my body, it’s still my secret, a secret I won’t share with him because I don’t believe he deserves any more pain.

  I think I deserve this pain.

  “If it’s over, Adam, and you still love me, then we can put it behind us. I didn’t want to hear about it, but you needed to tell me, and now you have I can just accept it and move on. We can move on. Together, if that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t know what I want, Tasha. Yes, I still love you, but I couldn’t take this hurt again, and I don’t know whether I can trust you anymore.”

  Thank you, Mel, thank you for warning me so I know what to say.

  “I understand that, Adam, and there’s nothing I can say to make you trust me, but if you give me time I can prove it to you.”

  “Time.” He nods slowly. “If there is a chance for us, and I’m not saying there definitely is, but if there is, I need to take things very slowly. We can’t just take up from where we left off.”

  “I understand that. That’s fine. That’s what I want.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank you, God, for giving me a chance. “So where do we take it from here?” I want him to say he’ll see me later, he’ll come over, he’ll stay the night, and suddenly I want to rip his clothes off and squeeze him tight, cover him with kisses, smother him with passion. With love.

  He stands up and takes some money out of his pocket to pay the bill, and then he looks at me, leans down and kisses me, half on the lips, half on the corner of my mouth.

  “I’ll call you,” he says, and walks out the door.

  24

  It’s been four days and he hasn’t called. Every time the phone rings at home I dive on it, and every time it hasn’t been Adam. The girls know it, they apologize for being them, for being the cause of the listless tone in my voice.

  I get in from work and the first thing I do, before cuddling the cats, before dropping my bags, before running up to the bathroom, is to dial 1471, just in case he called, and didn’t leave a message. But the last number received is never Adam’s.

  And every evening, while I’m staying in just in case he decides to call that evening, I pick up the phone on the hour, every hour, just to check it’s still working.

  At work I sit at my desk, surrounded by sheaths of paper, piles of videotapes, and I sit there and stare blankly into space, unable to concentrate for longer than three minutes at a time, glancing at the phone every few seconds, daring it to ring, daring it to be Adam.

  “Anyone call?” I ask Jilly repeatedly, even if I’ve just left my desk for a moment, and she looks at me as if I am mad for she knows how much I hate the phone, and her answer is always yes, but it’s never Adam.

  We always want what we can’t have, and here it is, living proof. I
always wanted the food I wasn’t supposed to have, the chocolate, bread, and biscuits when I was supposed to be on a diet, and now my craving is Adam.

  I think of him everywhere I go. I think of his smile, his laugh, his big strong arms, and occasionally I think of those arms around Cathy, but past is past, I tell myself, and I stop those thoughts before they become too painful, and I wait.

  When you’re an impatient person waiting five minutes for something that you want feels like a lifetime and I honestly don’t know how I’m coping with all this.

  One afternoon I get back from lunch, and a yellow Post-it note is balancing precariously on the top of the handset on my desk, with scribbled writing that I can only just make out. “Call Jennifer Mason,” it says, with a phone number I don’t recognize.

  I know I know this name. I just don’t know where from, so I cast it aside and get on with my script. But all afternoon I keep glancing at her name, knowing that she is somewhere in my memory, and eventually I dial her number, and the minute she picks up the phone I recognize her voice.

  “Remember me?” she laughs. “The Passion Junkie?”

  “Of course I do, how could I forget, you’re the woman who changed my life.”

  “That’s why I was calling. You never told me what happened to you that day we spoke on the phone, but I kept imagining you were in a similar situation, and I was watching the show the other day and saw your name on the credits. I started to think about you and I was curious so I called.”

  What a lovely thing to do. What a lovely woman.

  “I’ve got an Adam too,” I say, and we both laugh. “He was my best friend, and he fell in love with me but I wasn’t sure. After I spoke to you that day I still wasn’t sure, but I decided to give it a go.

  “And then I screwed it up. I thought there was something missing, I thought we didn’t have passion, so I left him and tried to find passion elsewhere, except what I thought was passion, wasn’t.”