Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  Nick mussed his hair over his eyes, then mussed it away again. He cleared his throat. ‘I see,’ he said in a normal voice. ‘And might I ask how you intend to do this?’

  I glared back, defiant. ‘Yes. You might. I’m going to take the cans of barbecue lighter fluid we, I have in the understairs cupboard. And I’m going to take a match. And I’m going to drive my car to Stuart’s house. I have the address, from his Girl Meets Boy membership application, and I’m going to wait until he’s asleep. And then I’m going to break a window round the back, so no nosy neighbours can alert him, and set fire to his, I imagine, battered leather armchair from a junk shop . . .’

  I despise people who buy battered leather armchairs from junk shops. Why can’t they get them new from Heal’s and pay fifteen hundred quid like the rest of us?

  ‘And then I’m going to retreat to my car, which will be parked across the street, and watch him die.’

  ‘Well,’ said Nick. ‘You seem to have it all worked out.’

  ‘I will do it,’ I said. ‘You think I won’t, but I will.’

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ he replied, pleasantly. He watched as I rattled about in the understairs cupboard and retrieved two metal cans and my tool kit. I thundered upstairs, wrenched off my clothes and changed into black trousers, a black jumper and flat black shoes. I also found a black woolly hat in my underwear drawer, so I took that too. ‘Checklist,’ I said loudly, on returning to the kitchen. ‘Petrol, yes, matches . . . yes, address, yes, hammer, yes, dishcloth, to muffle sound of smashing window, yes, car keys—’

  I knew he’d try to stop me after the hammer bit, so when he opened his mouth, I gave him a cold stare.

  ‘I’ll drive.’

  I’d misheard. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, I’ll drive.’ He smiled sweetly.

  I nearly dropped the hammer. ‘You will?’

  ‘Hol,’ replied Nick – à la Prince Charming bending his gracious majesty to fit Cinderella’s dainty foot in her glass slipper – ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Thanks.’ I mean, what do you say in such a situation?

  Grudgingly, I fetched my coat, and checked that the A–Z was in my bag.

  ‘Have you planned a route?’ enquired Nick. His refusal to disapprove was starting to annoy me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think you should. After you’ve set fire to his house I suggest we make a quick getaway. I’m afraid watching him die is a luxury. You might be spotted. Have you checked the location for CC cameras?’

  ‘No.’ Jesus. Couldn’t I carry out a simple bit of arson without Nick going all Magnum, PI? ‘Look, let’s just go. It’s half eleven.’

  ‘I reckon we should wait.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Half eleven! It’s the middle of the afternoon! Three a.m., when he’ll be sound asleep, and the Mrs Busybody across the road will be snoring in her hairnet. That’s the time to start a fire.’

  He was doing it on purpose. He thought the anger would dry up or I’d nod off on the couch. ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘Three a.m. it is.’

  I caught his gaze. He had a glint in his eye that was vaguely familiar. What was it? Oh lord – sex. Perhaps my ego is fragile, but I’ve never liked it when I suspect a lover has been warmed up, so to speak, by an outside influence. I prefer the credit to be all my own. Plainly, Nick was excitable from meeting his mother. Freud would have been jubilant. Me, I felt a little disgusted. If there was one pastime I wasn’t in the mood for, sex was it. Since that rather significant lapse with Nick, two months previously – of which the essential function was to prove to myself that I was normal – I’d cut off from carnality. Love, I could just about tolerate. As long as I didn’t have to witness any of the touchy smoochy sticky kissy smacky chopsy gunky musky stuff that went with it.

  I jumped up. ‘We’ll have to do something to keep awake,’ I said briskly. ‘We’ll watch . . .’ – what, in my fearsome arsenal of passion killers, could I pull from the bag? – Lord of the Rings.

  I pried the DVD out of its case and, for the first time ever, blessed Issy’s taste in birthday presents. Three long hours later, an unsullied me and a very sullen Nick crept to the car. I’d put the hammer, the matches and the fuel cans in a Selfridges bag, so as not to look suspicious. Nick drove in silence until we reached Stuart’s road. A smug white row of tall thin yuppified town houses in an area so grotty that any tramp with sense would walk miles to avoid it.

  I’d sat through Lord of the Rings, but it might as well have been a dead TV screen, because I’d registered none of it. The rage and hatred churned. All I could see was Stuart, plotting to sue me. Nick turned off the engine and my face contorted with viciousness. You’re dead, Stuart Marshall, and I will laugh as you burn.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Nick brightly. ‘Well. Better not hang around. It’s my number plate they’ll be running through the police computer. It won’t take a genius.’

  I clicked open the car door. My head was screaming. Fuck. Stuart lived in a bloody terrace. How the hell was I meant to reach his back window? I’d have to climb over about ninety fences. I hesitated. Nick started whistling under his breath. I booted the door wide open with my foot and slid out of the car.

  ‘Back in a minute,’ I said, and walked into the road.

  ‘Careful,’ screamed Nick, as a car zoomed out of the dark from nowhere, blasting its horn. I jumped back, trembling, on jelly legs. Shit, shit. That reckless bastard must have woken the entire street. And he’d seen me. My heart thundered. I cringed, my breath fogging the sharp air, waiting for lights to appear in windows. I had no choice. I’d have to soak the cloth in lighter fuel, post it through his letter box, followed by a lit match, or ten. It wasn’t ideal. How fast would the fire spread? Fast enough for Stuart to dial 999? I could feel a thousand eyes boring into me from every house. With potatoes for fingers, I wrestled the cloth, fuel and matches from the bag – the sodding rustling bright yellow beacon of a Selfridges bag. Nick whirred down his window and stuck out a hand. I passed it to him. Then I looked left, right and left again, and sauntered across the road. Head down, I padded past number seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one, twenty-three, until I stood in front of Stuart’s shinily painted black door with its gold lion-head brass knocker, evil, evil, evil – flash! and I was bathed in a security light like the criminal I was. A squeak of fright escaped me and I staggered backwards, dropping the cloth. I crouched to pick it up, fumbling, shaking. Then I dropped the matches. I sank, gasping, onto the pavement. Can’t do it, can’t do it, ‘I can’t fucking do it,’ I gasped, as Nick lifted me to my feet, gathered the incendiary devices and supported me to the car.

  ‘Can’t do it can’t do it,’ I said, falling into the seat. Nick leaned in and hugged me. ‘I want him punished. I want everyone to know what he is but I can’t do it.’

  ‘I know, baby, I know, sweetheart.’

  Can’t do it. I cried, hard, hackingly, but barely making a noise. Nick, in his cortorted position, half in, half out of the car, rocked me, kissed my head and whispered, ‘There, there.’

  Chapter 35

  NICK BUNDLED ME home and gave me a bath. There’s something profoundly comforting about being washed by another person. I sat there limply while he smoothed the soap over my arms and legs then gently rinsed it off, and patted me dry with a towel. He helped me into my pyjamas, kissed me on the forehead and tucked me into bed. Then he sat beside me and held my hand until I fell asleep. My last thought before drifting into a dream was, maybe I will talk to a counsellor. Not Issy though.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to going to work?’ demanded Nick when I marched into the kitchen fully dressed at 8.30 and beelined for the kettle.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I replied, hiding my shock at finding him awake before eleven. ‘Anyway, we’re short-staffed now that Nige has gone.’ I was keen to re-establish myself in his mind as sane. Visions of the previous evening kept flitting into my head and making me shudder. I hadn’t been so mortified since
trying to snog my own father aged four (I’d observed that everyone on TV kissed in that twisty way, why shouldn’t we? My one saving grace was that I hadn’t known about tongues). ‘And thanks for humouring me last night. It was like a red mist came down. I feel a bit silly.’

  Nick looked surprised. ‘Don’t. You did what you had to do. Thank you for coming with me to see my mother.’

  I smiled. I felt quite shy in front of him. And pleased that I was wearing mascara and that it wasn’t too humid in the house. (I am only good-looking in a controlled environment.) ‘Pleasure,’ I said. ‘When do you think you’ll be seeing her again? Coffee?’

  ‘Got. I don’t know. I think I’ll wait for her to ring me, she’ll probably call this afternoon. I don’t want to crowd her. I’m still overwhelmed. It still feels unreal. I’ve got a lot of things to think about.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Taking advantage of his docile mood, I added, ‘Um. By the way. I told my parents about the bébé. I would have, mm, consulted you but I, I . . . forgot.’

  Nick merely smiled. He wanted to know their reaction, he also wanted to know that they wouldn’t tell Lavinia and Michael. Yet. Relieved, I turned down his offer of a lift and drove to work, wondering. The crumpled writ was stuffed down the bottom of my bag, but I was aware of it every second. It seemed that it wasn’t only Stuart I was fighting, it was the High Court, the ancient imposing gothic building itself, the entire British legal system, a dinosaur, a monster. I felt like a fly about to be crushed. Still, I had twenty-eight days to respond. Twenty-seven to block it out.

  ‘Did you get yours?’ cried Claudia as I walked into the office with our first hour’s supply of caffeine.

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Invitation to Bernard and Sam’s wedding!’

  I snatched the cream envelope she was waving. ‘Lord. They’re not hanging around. They must have had the registrar on stand-by. Aaar. How lovely. God, I must ring her, congratulate her properly. It’s fantastic.’

  Ms Claudia Appleton plus One was cordially invited to the marriage of Mr Bernard Murphy and Miss Samantha Dowden, and the date of this momentous event appeared to be the following Sunday. Claudia did finger sums. ‘I wonder how they managed to organise it so fast. He must have proposed on their first date, and she must have booked it all the next morning. Presumably she had the caterers on speed-dial.’

  I giggled. ‘So. You’re just jealous because if you want to marry Camille the wedding will have to be in California with an Elvis impersonator who’s just married a French Poodle to a Doberman. Which, now I think of it, sounds a lot more fun than most weddings. Bugsy me be flower girl.’

  Claudia grinned. ‘I might ask the poodle. As for Bernard and Sam, neither of them are babies exactly. And some people don’t feel complete without a marriage certificate in their hot little paw. I’m pleased for them.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And I’m even more pleased for us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘We e e e ll, sweetie, the Glamour journalist rang bright and early this morning, wanting to know “if Girl Meets Boy had any marriages”, and as luck would have it, I was able to say, oh so casually, that, yeah, actually, we had one next week. She got all hot and bothered and wanted to know if she could attend it, so I put in a call to Sam—’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘My dear, she was thrilled.’

  ‘You did tell her that if it goes in, everyone she’s ever known will be gossiping about how she met her husband through a dating agency?’

  ‘Hol. Whose side are you on? Yes I did, and Sam doesn’t give a damn. She’s found a husband, that is all. And she fancies the idea of having a professional magazine photographer present. That was her condition. That they give her a free set of snaps.’

  ‘Very cunning.’

  ‘And another thing. The Glamour journalist, Tabitha, wants to do a Date Night! Next Tuesday! This time, we’re not going to screw up. I’m thinking of calling in a friend of mine, Karl, have you met Karl? to put her with. He’s vee good looking, vee charming, an artist, a painter. Odd, but in a nice way. Funny. Vee intelligent. Quite posh. Entertaining.’

  I frowned. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? Haven’t we got enough gorgeous men on our books? What about Xak?’

  ‘It’ll be fine. Karl’s just a bonus, to balance things out. But yeah, we’ll definitely put her with Xak. And there are a couple of new guys who I know will do it.’

  ‘New guys—’

  ‘Yes, but don’t worry, Issy’s done her psychological profiling, they’re all kosher. In fact there are some real goodies.’

  ‘Great, wonderful. But actually, all I was going to say was, you’d better update me. Update me, geddit?’

  Claudia winced. ‘Sadly, yes.’

  A happy few hours plotting, and I felt that Stuart couldn’t touch me. I had my life, and I liked it. My father rang to ask if I could come to Penge the following weekend so that he and Mum could ‘see the bump’. Perhaps Nick would come too? But only if he, we had the time, no rush, no pressure, a quiet family tea, perhaps, just Issy and Claudia. He and Mum couldn’t make this weekend, they were away in Bude, unfortunately, but surely we young people were busy anyway. They were dying to tell everyone, Leila, their friends at the Caravan Club, but were managing, just, to keep it secret. Nick rang mid-morning and my happiness was complete. Well, ninety-eight per cent.

  ‘How’s my baby? Are the two of you free for lunch?’

  ‘Could be,’ I said coyly. This was new. Flirting with Nick. A habit that had died a painful and lingering death two years earlier. How great to resurrect it. See! Our relationship was good now, it was really good.

  ‘Excellent. I’ll book somewhere nice. I want to ask you something. Pick you up at one-ish.’

  My easily flattered heart started pounding. First, Nick wasn’t a booker. He didn’t book restaurants, theatre, cinema, even holidays. It was always, ‘Let’s turn up at the last minute and see’. Of course, usually what we saw was a full house and no vacancies, so inevitably, I’d become Entertainments Officer for the relationship. That he had voluntarily decided to book somewhere ‘nice’, was therefore of huge significance. I was no longer regarded as the old pair of slippers girlfriend. I was a special person, to be impressed. Second, he wanted to ask me something, in delightful surroundings. This meant one of two things. A request for either marriage or money.

  Would any man ask the same woman twice? Surely it depended on the circumstances, and both our circumstances had greatly changed since I’d ended our engagement. Now, we were in a position to value each other. I don’t think we had before. And, if I was honest, now we needed each other more. We craved safety and stability, both of us felt too vulnerable alone. I was sure that he would propose. Partly because we’d been so emotionally intimate lately, and partly because even Nick would realise that to ask a woman for money at this stage in a liaison was grotesquely inappropriate.

  Sitting in a cosy corner of a French/Vietnamese restaurant in Charlotte Street – one of my favourite streets in London – I silently awarded Nick ten out of ten. Wood decor (just the right shade, not dark enough to be gloomy, not light enough to be pine), polite, unobtrusive service from waiting staff with good hygiene, and a chic, restful yet romantic atmosphere. And the food looked delicious. I smiled at him over my menu. He smiled back. Would he wait until we’d eaten, or would he do it when our drinks arrived? I’d ordered a glass of champagne, and he’d said, ‘Why not?’ and ordered another.

  As the pretty waitress set our flutes down on the table, I fiddled with my napkin.

  ‘How was work this morning?’ enquired Nick.

  ‘Good, actually. We’ve had a few new applications. I can see at least three promising matches, I can hardly wait till Tuesday. We’ve got this girl called Shannon, she’s a nanny, and she’s not been that popular in the past because she tends to grill people, but Nige had a chat with her and apparently, she’s softened. She’s also gone on this personal improveme
nt crusade, and Claw says she looks fantastic, “plump and wholesome”. And she’s a lovely person, very caring, and I swear she’ll get on beautifully with this new man we’ve got called Archie – Claw says he’s sexy, sleepy-eyed, bit scruffy, but very successful. He sells fitness equipment, except he always seems to have a cold or catarrh and he reeks constantly of Olbas Oil, and you just know they’ll be drawn to each other, I can’t wait to see it.’

  I drew breath. Nick took my hand and stroked the inside of my palm with his thumb. ‘I love how you are with these people. It makes me think what a great mum you’ll be.’

  Three months ago I’m not sure I’d have seen this as a compliment. And three months ago, I’m not sure Nick would have given this compliment. Now, I beamed all over my face. I waited for him to continue. This had to be it! After what he’d been through, Nick had to see being ‘a great mum’ as the most precious talent in the world. Wanting to encourage him, I clinked my glass against his. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And I’m sure you’ll be a great dad.’

  His eyes boggled. He mussed his hair. ‘I really want to be. More than anything.’ Pause. ‘And that kind of brings me on to why I asked you here.’ He blushed, I felt a squirm of excitement travel the entire length of my torso. I assumed a receptive expression. (Eyes narrowed – soft, not too starey or demanding; gentle smile – not glaring or expectant, the kind of face to make a man think he could spend the rest of his life with this woman without excess grief or hassle.) It absolutely went against every principle I’d ever had, but I’d recently concluded that principles were luxuries, most of which I couldn’t afford.

  I said in a low voice (not high or shrill), ‘You know you can ask me anything.’ I wondered if I should pull out the table, to enable him to kneel by the side of it. Nick nodded. He placed his champagne glass to one side. ‘Gorgeous Holly, this may surprise you, but I wanted to ask if you would give me . . .’