A Funny Thing About Love

by Rebecca Farnworth

  Taking a deep breath, she exited the bedroom and headed along the corridor towards what she thought must be the kitchen judging by the aroma of toast. It was clear that Will had a lovely flat. She glanced in at the living room, a large airy room, then went on to the kitchen, which was small but functional, with shiny red units. Will was reading the Observer, to the accompaniment of Frank Sinatra on his iPod station. He looked up.

  ‘Ah, the creature has emerged! How are you feeling, Miller?’

  ‘Okay,’ Carmen muttered, sitting down on one of the stylish black Philippe Starck Ghost chairs that she had always wanted and never been able to afford.

  ‘Right, Dr Hunter to the rescue, take these,’ he handed her a packet of ibuprofen, ‘and drink this.’ He poured her a glass of orange juice. He was being so sweet. Carmen suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious.

  ‘So, what plans do you have today?’ he asked, as he passed her a plate of toast already buttered and cut into triangles (another tick for the butter – Carmen loathed low-fat spread).

  ‘What day is it?’ Carmen only half-joked.

  ‘Sunday, and I would suggest we did something . . .’ he paused, ‘but I’ve actually got to work. I’ve got to prepare a presentation for Tiana and a group of potential investors. She just called me to say it had been brought forward to tomorrow.’

  Oh no, take the shame! Will was trying to get rid of her by pretending he had to work! Carmen had thought she couldn’t be any more mortified than she already was, but apparently not. ‘No worries, I think I’m supposed to be seeing my friend Marcus.’ She quickly shoved a triangle of toast into her mouth, determined to have one slice and then be on her way. She knew when she wasn’t wanted.

  ‘Marcus Taylor? Say hi from me, I’ve met him a couple of times. I’d love to entice him back into the agency. I think Tiana made a real error of judgement letting him go.’

  ‘She certainly did,’ Carmen replied through the toast.

  ‘And she made a mistake with you, too. I could have a word with her if you like, see if she’ll reconsider.’

  Carmen shook her head. ‘Thanks, but no, I really am going to give my writing a shot. Anyway, thanks for breakfast, I’m going to grab my stuff and head off.’

  ‘Hey, have some more toast?’ Will called after her as she practically jogged back to the bedroom, her stockinged feet skidding on the shiny wooden floor.

  ‘No thanks,’ Carmen shouted back as she quickly strapped herself into her heels, trying to ignore the pulsating blister on her baby toe, which was screaming please don’t make me wear these again! She ineffectually shook out Will’s duvet, and nearly had to lie down again from the effort, picked up her bag and clattered into the living room. Will had relocated there and was already sitting at his desk, typing away at his laptop. He didn’t have to put on a pretence. She was going, for goodness’ sake! She reached for her Alexander McQueen jacket.

  He looked up. ‘Shall I book you a taxi?’

  She shook her head. She couldn’t bear to be in the flat another second. ‘I’ll get the Tube.’

  Will’s mouth twitched. ‘Do you actually know where you are?’

  Carmen reached into her pocket for her lip balm and dabbed some on her lips, as realisation dawned. ‘Nope.’

  Will stood up. ‘I’ll walk you to the Tube – we’re at Ravenscourt Park.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that if you’ve got work to do.’ Carmen felt defensive now.

  ‘I can take ten minutes out.’

  Outside the sky was a miserable grey, heavy with rain. ‘Kind of makes you want to go back to bed, doesn’t it?’ Will said cheekily as they turned out of his flat and walked through a small park.

  ‘Oh, I’ll probably do an hour or two of writing before I meet up with Marcus,’ Carmen said airily, thinking longingly of collapsing on her sofa and fretting that Will must think she was a complete lush.

  ‘I admire your self-discipline, Carmen,’ Will replied. ‘I know I couldn’t do what you are. But I’m sure it will pay off. Trish sent me the first episode and I loved it.’

  ‘Oh my God! I can’t believe she did that! It was just a draft, it’s rubbish.’ Carmen felt even more exposed than she had lying in his bed. She moodily shoved her hands into her jacket pockets.

  ‘I made Trish do it. I threatened to stamp on one of her cacti and kidnap her favourite angelfish. Stop panicking, it was really good. And I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it. You may need to rethink your pitching skills as I don’t know if the expression “it’s rubbish” is going to cut it with producers. Seriously, Carmen, you should think about letting me represent you.’

  ‘Hah! I know how much Fox Nicholson screw their writers, remember!’

  Will looked at her and gave her his naughtiest grin before lowering his voice and saying, ‘How much they like to screw their writers. But only the select few.’ The butterflies did a loop-the-loop of lust, and despite wanting a career as a comedy writer, Carmen could not for the life of her come back with a witty riposte.

  ‘This is you,’ Will said as they reached the Tube. ‘I’m really sorry that we can’t spend the day together, but I’ve got to get this report done.’ He paused and the flirtatious tone was gone. ‘The company’s in a real mess at the moment. I’ll call you to arrange that dinner, I don’t want you starving in your garret.’

  In my bedsit, more like, Carmen thought as she click-clacked her way towards the ticket barrier after a PG-rated kiss with Will.

  6

  ‘Day seven of unemployment for Carmen Miller of Crouch End slash Hornsey and Carmen is finding it tough,’ intoned the morose Geordie voiceover in Carmen’s head. ‘No, no, not unemployment! Day seven of being a writer! And it is more Crouch End than Hornsey,’ piped up the more optimistic American voice, let’s say in the manner of John Barrowman. Was there anyone more optimistic than him? Those dazzling teeth, those scrumptious cheekbones, that lovely jet-black hair . . . Hmm, why wasn’t he her gay best friend? Why did she end up with cynical Marcus, who loathed musicals, probably as much as John adored them? And why was she wasting time having this debate when she should have been writing? Carmen looked over to where her MacBook sat on the desk by the window, waiting for her to get started. She couldn’t help thinking that it had a slightly accusing air about it. Oh my God, she was ascribing feelings to inanimate objects, perhaps this working from home, pretending to be a writer (five scenes so far) was sending her crazy. No wonder so many writers drank. This was hard! The hardest thing she had ever done.

  She sat down once more at the desk and clicked open the document. She would write for at least three hours, then go out and have lunch. No, hang on, she couldn’t have a late lunch as she was meeting Will for dinner tonight; she would have to have an early lunch, which meant working for less, say an hour and a half.

  At the thought of Will she found herself gazing, not at the expectant screen, but out of the window and at the stately horse chestnut tree, whose leaves were already turning golden. She still didn’t know what to make of their relationship. Her instinct warned her to steer clear, to get on with writing. Matthew had told her to be careful, but she couldn’t deny the attraction. Those three kisses had been intoxicating, and the feel of his body against hers had been quite something as well. And they did get on, the flirtatious banter was delicious, but more than that she felt Will was also a friend, she felt connected to him. The truth was she was looking forward to seeing him that night. She was determined not to drink; she hadn’t since Matthew’s leaving party. She almost felt proud of herself for achieving this unprecedented spell of abstinence until she remembered that she had probably consumed a month’s worth of units at the party.

  Carmen fidgeted some more, wrote a few more lines, then went on Facebook and sent a message to Matthew. Then she gave her profile picture an American year-book style makeover, emailed Sadie, Jess and Marcus, googled the new Vivienne Westwood collection on Net a Porter and spent a wistful few minutes wondering if she could afford anyt
hing, maybe a trinket such as the crystal orb pendant? That would be a lovely pick-me-up. Maybe if she didn’t eat for a couple of weeks? Maybe not. Maybe she would have to disable her broadband connection to stop this random googling and emailing, never mind twittering, which Marcus kept telling her she should do though she was yet to be convinced. She made a coffee and wrote a few more lines – admittedly she was slow, but hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, was it? Her mobile rang. It was Nick. Carmen hesitated. She hadn’t replied to his message about the flat the other week, but she was going to have to speak to him sometime.

  ‘Hi,’ she couldn’t stop herself from sounding curt.

  ‘Hi, Carmen. How are you?’

  ‘Great,’ she snapped, sounding far from it.

  Nick sighed. ‘Look, I’m back now and there are things we need to talk about.’

  Carmen steeled herself. ‘Like what? My tips on motherhood? After all, I read all those baby books, didn’t I? I’m very well up on the subject, I could give Marian plenty of useful advice.’ Her voice was now brittle with pain.

  ‘Carmen, I’m so sorry to put you through this,’ Nick said gently. ‘I’m sorry for everything; I’m sorry we couldn’t have children together, I’m sorry we broke up, but we’ve got to face it.’

  Carmen took a deep breath and tried very hard to be brave. It wasn’t Nick’s fault. It was no one’s fault. It just was. ‘Okay, go ahead, I’m sorry.’

  A pause, ‘It’s about the flat.’

  ‘My home, you mean,’ the brittle voice had turned bitter.

  ‘I know, Carmen, and believe me I don’t want to put you through this, but I’m really strapped for cash at the moment – we’re bursting out of Marian’s one-bedroom flat and with—’

  ‘Yes, I know what’s on the way,’ Carmen interrupted. ‘So what do you want to do?’ She picked away at the Rouge Noir nail varnish on her nails, ruining the look.

  ‘I need you to get the flat valued and see if there’s any equity which you could give to me, then I’d take my name off the mortgage and the flat would be yours.’

  It was a generous offer and if Carmen was still working it would have been entirely possible, however she doubted she could take on a mortgage on her own with her conspicuous lack of income.

  ‘Actually, Nick, I just resigned, so I’m not sure if that would work.’

  ‘Oh,’ Nick paused, clearly taking on board the enormity of Carmen’s statement. ‘So we might have to think about selling the flat.’ He said it quickly, as if somehow that would make it hurt less, like ripping a plaster off a wound. Carmen would much rather have left that particular plaster stuck on.

  ‘I suppose we might,’ Carmen replied, trying to keep her voice steady. Everything suddenly seemed uncertain, unstable. She was a little girl again trying to avoid stepping on the cracks in the pavement, and right now she had fallen down a bloody great chasm. She was still falling.

  ‘Look, I know this is tough for you, do you want me to set up the valuations?’

  Carmen looked around the living room, painted a shade of pale green that she and Nick had debated over endlessly, down at the honey-coloured floorboards that Nick had spent an entire weekend stripping and then varnishing – badly, it had to be said – and nearly having a major bust-up with their neighbours over the noise. The maroon velvet Habitat sofa that she didn’t think they’d even paid for yet, where they’d hung out watching films, made love, consoled each other when yet another month went by without Carmen getting pregnant. Towards the end it was the battleground where she sat at one end, Nick at the other, and they’d fired off accusations and recriminations at each other. The flat wasn’t grand, it wasn’t stylish, but it was hers. But not any more, it seemed.

  ‘Yep, if you could set it up that would really help. I’m going to have to go now, Nick, so take care and just let me know the arrangements.’ She sounded businesslike, calm and collected on the outside. But inside she was screaming with hurt, pain and despair. She looked at the computer screen, wanting with all her heart to escape into her fictional world.

  But of course after that conversation writing was out of the question. Instead Carmen alternated crying with pacing round her flat, even opening the drawer she wasn’t supposed to open ever which still carried a selection of baby books, relics of a life which would never be hers. She pulled out the week-by-week planner to work out what Nick’s baby looked like for maximum pain. At twelve weeks Nick’s baby was about twenty-two millimetres long. It was fully formed; all its organs, muscles, limbs and bones were in place. Nick’s baby was already moving about, but Marian wouldn’t be able to feel it yet, that would come at around eighteen weeks, along with the baby’s finger- and toenails, eyelashes and eyebrows. Nick’s baby and her tiny, not-yet-grown fingernails needed the flat more than Carmen did. It was time for the barren, childless woman to get out.

  The pain of not being able to have a baby was like a raw wound inside her, which most of the time her brain cordoned off for her own self-preservation. From her early twenties she had longed to have a child, and because she and Nick had decided to try in their late twenties it never crossed either of their minds that there would be a problem. She was not playing Russian roulette with her fertility and precious eggs by leaving it until she was forty to try. Their failure to conceive took them both by surprise. For a few hours Carmen was back in the dark place. It wasn’t one of those things she could just shake off; it clung to her as she got ready for her night out with Will, hardly caring what she wore and what she looked like, was there as she sat on the Tube, staring mindlessly at her reflection in the opposite window, and was why she was already over half an hour late meeting Will. What did it matter if Will flirted with her now? He surely wouldn’t if he knew that she couldn’t have children. He would simply feel sorry for her.

  * * *

  It felt strange charging up Great Portland Street, her old stomping ground. It had only been a week since she was last there but already she felt so detached from it. The workers were heading off for post-work drinks at the variety of bars and pubs lining the street. She turned down a small side road and headed to the Ship. Desi gave her a cheery wave as she walked in.

  Will was sitting at their usual table.

  He smiled when she bowled up to him. ‘Miller, you have the worst timekeeping of anyone I know.’ He pointed at his watch. ‘Shall I introduce you to this invention? It’s called a watch and it’s really useful.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Will, I just got held up.’

  ‘Was it all those creative juices flowing?’ he asked, lightly kissing each of her cheeks.

  ‘Something like that.’ Carmen knew she was expected to banter back but in her present mood couldn’t manage it. Now she was with him she realised it was a mistake seeing Will tonight, she should have stayed at home. She just felt too bleak. ‘So what can I get you to drink?’ Will asked. ‘It can only be a quick one as we’re meeting the others in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘What others?’ Carmen asked, sitting on the sofa next to him and pulling the sleeves of her black sweater dress over her hands to cover up the ruined nail varnish. She’d thought she was seeing Will one on one. She could just about handle that, but having to make small talk with strangers was really pushing it.

  ‘Sorry, I meant to tell you, I’d double-booked. It’s just some friends slash former work contacts of mine, you don’t mind, do you? I didn’t want to cancel you; I really wanted to see you.’ He gave her his most smouldering look.

  In spite of the look Carmen wasn’t at all sure she liked the fact that she was the one who might have been cancelled. She had never been into that pack-as-many-people-into-an-evening-as-possible scenario – having drinks with one set of friends then going on to dinner with another. It reminded her of people who graded guests at their weddings, where some only qualified to be invited for the evening, for drinks and dancing. It seemed to Carmen as if they were saying, we like you, just not that much. You’re not an A-list friend, just a B-list. Poor old you.
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  Will went off to the bar to buy her a vodka and tonic; she had been sorely tempted to ask for a double. She picked more nail varnish off and wondered how quickly she’d be able to leave the meal. Will returned. He looked as good as ever, though his eyes looked tired – no doubt Tiana had been keeping his nose to the comedy grindstone.

  ‘So how’s it going, Miller? Have you finished it yet?’ Will was in full flirtatious mode.

  Carmen shook her head. ‘Give me a chance, Will! I’ve had other stuff to deal with.’

  Will looked at her curiously. ‘What’s that then?’

  God, why had she mentioned it? There was no way that she wanted to let Will know about the emotional minefield that was her life right now. Keep it light was going to be her mantra for tonight.

  ‘Just stuff. So do you still miss me at Fox Nicholson? Give me all the gossip. How’s Trish and the fish?’ And as Will chatted away Carmen did her very best to look animated and smile.

  But as soon as she walked into the restaurant with Will and was introduced to his friends, she just knew she was not going to be able to sustain the act. There was Didi, a polished blonde who was very high up in publicity at the BBC and her husband, Patrick, who was an agent working at Brand’s. They were perfectly charming to Carmen as Will introduced her, but as soon as they found out that she had given up her job and was now a writer Carmen sensed their condescension.