Letters to a Love Rat

by Niamh Greene

  Mary says inviting Larry to dinner is an important step for me because it means I may be ready to trust someone again, and that this could mark the start of a whole new chapter in my life. She says that if I believe I’m worthy of good things, then good things will happen to me, so I’m busy telling myself that I deserve to have an exquisite dinner party where nothing gets burnt, no one gets too drunk and, most of all, no one gets hit over the head with a pepper pot.

  Johnny the plumber and his new girlfriend are coming too. He met her on some Internet chat site and they hooked up properly when she got him to fix a leak in her bathroom. It sounds bizarre, but they look really happy. I found them snogging passionately beside the lift yesterday and couldn’t help but ask them both along. They asked whether they could bring some AC/DC to help set the mood – they’re both fans apparently – but I told them that I’d already got the music sorted because I’m planning to ask Homer for some of his classical stuff to play in the background. I’m really happy for Johnny. He hasn’t looked as alive in ages.

  I’ve asked Homer too. He’s still been acting strangely since the whole vase episode, but he’s just about finished the painting and I really want him to be there for the first dinner party I host in my new, improved yellow flat, especially as he was the one who chose the colour in the first place. He looked a bit unsure about the idea initially, but I told him I wouldn’t crack anything over his head if he came along and then he smiled this funny, almost sad smile and said that was a pity. Then there was this awkward silence, and to break the ice I said he should bring his girlfriend along because I was inviting a hot date myself so it would mean even numbers. Anna says he’s been dating some bimbo on and off. I can’t imagine Homer with a bimbo – he’s so intelligent and well mannered – but Anna says the bimbo is mad about him and rarely lets him out of her sight. Anyway, he went a bit red when I mentioned the hot date thing, and then he said OK, and I was so happy that I couldn’t help but give him a quick hug and tell him I’ve really missed our little chats over herbal tea. He hugged me back briefly and I immediately remembered the night I whacked him over the head and he’d wrapped his arms around me and I had rested my head on his chest. Then he backed away and the moment was lost again.

  Anna is really excited about the dinner. She keeps asking me if this is it – if Larry could be the One. She’s even more eager to find out if I’m going to jump his bones, as she puts it. I told her that I didn’t know if there was any chemistry between Larry and me – that he seemed like a really nice guy and that was good enough for the time being. But Anna said that was horseshit and if there was any chemistry I would know all about it – I’d feel it in my bones every time I looked at him or touched him. I felt a bit strange when she said that, but I tried not to linger on it too much. I don’t want any distractions, I have enough to concentrate on trying to sort out a dinner party for eight. Even thinking about making the gravy has me breaking out in a cold sweat. Sex and passion are the last things on my mind.

  Eve

  Are You Red Hot or Ice Cold?

  Is passion important to you? Do you need to spice up your love life or is the flame of lust still burning brightly between you and your man? Take our quiz and find out!

  You think sex is:

  a)Overrated. You’d much prefer to watch a good soap opera.

  b)Underrated. Everyone should be doing it as much as possible.

  c)Gross. All that sweating and heavy breathing leaves you cold.

  Your favourite position is:

  a)Missionary. That way you can watch TV over his shoulder.

  b)On top. It’s much more intense that way.

  c)Comatose. You usually pretend to be asleep.

  You have sex:

  a)Once a month – more when the Hollywood writers strike was on.

  b)Every day – you still can’t keep your hands off your man.

  c)As little as possible, and never on Fridays – it really musses up your blow-dry.

  Results

  Mostly As: You need to add a little spice to your love life. Why not pretend your man is one of your favourite soap stars? Fantasizing can really heat things up in the bedroom.

  Mostly Bs: You and your man still have it going on. Make sure you’re not wearing him out, tiger!

  Mostly Cs: Sex shouldn’t be a chore. Let your hair down and loosen up a bit – you might just enjoy it!

  Molly

  ‘Oh my God. He wants to come back?! What are you going to do?’ Tanya hisses down the phone.

  I’ve briefly told Tanya about Charlie’s letter. I’ve also told her that I’m surrounded by people at a photo shoot so I can’t discuss it in graphic, Technicolor detail, no matter how much she wants me to. I should have waited to tell her when I could talk properly, I shouldn’t have said a word about it, but she knew by my voice when I answered her call that something had happened, so I had to fess up. I’ve been avoiding her – which hasn’t been hard to do because she’s in New York on business – so she was already suspicious.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say carefully in a low voice. ‘I have to think about it.’

  If I’m honest, I’ve done nothing but think about this whole mess since I got Charlie’s letter, but I still don’t know exactly what I’m going to do. I’ve become more and more convinced that things were never really right between us, but I can’t decide if we should try to salvage our relationship or not. All I know for sure is that time is running out. Charlie will be waiting to hear from me, and if I don’t get in touch soon, odds are he will arrive on my doorstep himself and demand an answer.

  ‘Have you thought about what we said? About… Charlie and another woman?’

  I can hear her clearing her throat as she asks me that. I know that even mentioning it again is making her uncomfortable, but she feels she has to. She wants to protect me, just like when we were little and another child was nasty to me in the playground.

  ‘Not really, I haven’t had time, work has been crazy.’

  This is a lie. I don’t know for sure if there’s anyone else involved, but I’ve started to think it’s a strong possibility. The most worrying thing is that I’m not consumed by jealousy at the thought of Charlie in another woman’s arms, and I know that can’t be normal.

  ‘Well, don’t make any rash decisions. Think everything through fully.’ Her voice is anxious.

  ‘OK, I promise,’ I say. ‘Now, I’d better go – the shoot is about to start.’

  ‘Who’s it for, anyway?’ she asks, and I toy with the idea of telling her that it’s for David, that I’m doing a feature on him for Her, that today we’ve booked a studio to get some shots for the magazine, but I can’t bring myself to say it. Tanya adored David. I know that secretly she’d be thrilled if she knew we’d met again. How can I tell her that he hates me now? That he despises the ground I walk on? She’d be horrified. And anyway, if I did tell her, I’d never get her off the phone.

  ‘No one you know,’ I lie. ‘I’d better go, he’s here.’

  That last part is true. David has just walked into the studio. He hasn’t spotted me yet because when Tanya called I half hid myself behind a pillar towards the back of the room to talk to her in semi-private. I snap my phone shut quickly before Tanya can ask me any more awkward questions and I hover there now, glad I have a minute to compose myself before I have to greet him. I sidle right behind the pillar and peek out to get a proper look. And when I do, I can’t help but catch my breath. He looks great. His cheeks are flushed and he’s panting slightly. He must have sprinted up the stairs. He never could take the lift; he always insisted on running up, two steps at a time, as fast as he could.

  ‘Come on, Molly!’ he’d yell when I grumbled that if God wanted us to take the stairs then he wouldn’t have invented elevators. ‘Don’t be a lazybones!’

  Then he’d grab me by the hand and haul me up as many flights as I could manage. I often pretended to have a stitch just so he’d throw me across his shoulders and carry me the
rest of the way. He was so strong, he would fling me easily across his back, making me feel like I was a featherweight slip of a girl, instead of the sturdy thing I was in reality. He always made me feel protected and cared for. It was one of the things I loved most about him. I knew he would keep me safe, no matter what.

  I look at him now as he shrugs off his coat and runs his hands through his hair, all the while frowning just a little. I can tell he’s anxious. He hates having his photo taken, so he must be dreading this. I’m surprised he agreed to it at all. I have a sudden insane urge to run across the room, throw my arms around him and tell him that everything will be all right, that I’ll make sure it’s OK, that I’ll make it easy for him. I’ve already removed the pineapple from the fruit basket because I know he’s allergic to it. Looking at him now, it’s all I can do not to hurl myself into his arms and swear to protect him from anything dangerous that will ever come his way, no matter what. But I can’t, because I know if I do he’ll look at me like I’m the most pathetic creature on the planet, just like he did in the hotel lobby during that terrible interview.

  ‘What are you doing back there, silly?’ It’s Samantha. She’s in her element. She chattered non-stop all the way over here. Strangely, it was quite comforting to listen to.

  ‘Nothing,’ I mutter, hoping she didn’t catch me mooning over him.

  ‘Here, take my glasses,’ she says, smiling kindly and holding out the massive sunnies to me. ‘You know, so you can chat to David without him freaking out.’

  I pause for a split second before I put them on. As far as Samantha knows, David can’t look anyone in the eye without having a nervous episode. And last time I met him, I told him I was photosensitive. If I don’t wear them today, he’ll know I was lying to him. I can’t let that happen. I have to keep pretending so he doesn’t find out the truth – that I was only wearing them so he couldn’t see my haggard face.

  ‘OK, we’re going to make this as painless as possible,’ the photographer shouts, interrupting my thoughts. ‘David, you’re a handsome bloke so it shouldn’t be hard. What’s the look we’re going for?’

  The photographer turns to find me. I’m meant to tell him the type of thing that would work well on our magazine pages. I should have done this long before David arrived. Now I have to speak in front of him. I feel my cheeks burn with shame as I shuffle out from behind the pillar.

  ‘Ah, there she is!’ the photographer calls sarcastically. ‘The woman with all the answers.’

  David glances up and I see a look of faint shock register on his face before he quickly hides it. He didn’t expect me to be here today, that’s obvious.

  ‘So, what are you looking for?’ the photographer asks again, cocking his head quizzically. He’s impatient, I can tell. He probably has another job to get to and he wants this to be over as quickly as possible.

  ‘Um…’ I stumble over my words, trying to think of the right thing to say. Nothing comes. I know I must look like a disorganized idiot, but I just can’t think of what I’m supposed to say. I’ve done these photo shoots a million times before, I know what I’m doing, so why has my tongue decided to stick to the roof of my mouth now?

  The photographer stares at me. He has a reputation for being a hothead who doesn’t suffer fools. I can almost see him twitching with annoyance. If I don’t come up with something credible soon, he’ll probably explode.

  ‘Moody!’ Samantha offers confidently from behind me when I still say nothing. ‘Sexy-moody to be exact. That’s what we’re looking for.’

  I smile gratefully at Samantha, who beams back.

  The photographer jerks his head at us like he knows exactly what we mean.

  ‘OK, sexy-moody. Gotcha. Shouldn’t be a problem.’

  I look at David. He’s chatting amiably to the photographer’s assistant, who’s angling his body in the best position to catch the light. His half-smile pierces my heart and I struggle for composure.

  ‘David, you can do sexy-moody, right?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he says quietly, staring steadfastly ahead.

  ‘Great!’ the photographer yells. ‘Let’s get started.’

  The assistant does a last-minute adjustment to the studio lights and within seconds the photographer starts to snap, yelling directions to David as he goes.

  ‘Good, that’s great. Lift your chin. Not too high. Perfect!’

  David looks into the lens, his expression unreadable.

  The photographer stops snapping.

  ‘I need more. I need you to look soulful. Think of something sad that happened to you and project it through your eyes.’

  ‘Sad?’ David asks.

  ‘Yeah! Sad! You’re devastated. You’re heartbroken. The love of your life has left you and you’re in bits. I want you to feel it! I want you to show it to me!’

  In slow motion, David turns and looks straight at me and I feel my hands start to shake. His eyes bore through me. My whole body is shaking now. I’ve seen him look at me that way before. He looked exactly the same when I told him I didn’t love him any more. When I told him I wanted to leave and I didn’t want him to come with me. The expression on his face now is just as it was then. It’s bleak.

  In a flash I’m right back to that moment when I turned my back on him and walked out of his life, and I know for sure now that he will never forgive me for it.

  ‘That’s it! Perfect!’ I can hear the photographer snapping and yelling and before I know what I’m doing, I’m running out of the studio, wrenching the sunglasses from my face and throwing them to the floor as I sprint. Tears are streaming down my cheeks and I fight to catch my breath.

  I can hear Samantha call my name but I keep going. I want to run for ever. I race down the stairs and out through the front door, gulping for air. If I can just get outside, I know I’ll be able to breathe properly again. I force my way through the throngs of people on the footpath, blind with tears, only knowing that I have to get out of here and fast, not caring who’s in my way. Then I collide head on with someone, someone who refuses to move. I dodge right and then left to try to pass, but still the person hulks in front of me, refusing to budge.

  Through my tears I can see a vague outline of something multicoloured on this person’s head. It looks like a turban.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ the person says, and I know who it is immediately. It’s Carla Ryan, the queen of chick lit.

  An hour later, Carla and I are sitting in a quiet booth in a wine bar, sipping our second glass of house red.

  ‘So, what you’re telling me is that your new husband upped and left you straight after your honeymoon?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘That’s what I’m telling you.’

  ‘And now he wants to come back?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod again.

  This whole situation is surreal. I’m pouring my heart out to a woman I have only met once before, but for some reason it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘That’s crazy. Who does he think he is, some sort of ridiculous chick-lit character?’ Carla smirks across the table at me and I can’t help but smile back.

  Obviously she reads her own reviews: her books have often been accused of having far-fetched characters and plots – even her publicist thinks so.

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’ she asks, topping up my drink from the bottle we ordered.

  I fiddle with my glass.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s quite simple really, if you think about it.’

  ‘It is?’ I’m confused. How can she possibly think that all this mess is simple?

  ‘Of course. Do you love this wandering husband of yours?’

  I think about this.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I answer.

  ‘You’re not sure?’ She cocks a straggly eyebrow at me. She could definitely do with a good plucking session. Maybe some Indian threading – that’s meant to work wonders.

  ‘I thought I did,’ I say eventually. It doesn’t s
ound very convincing, even to me.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Carla puts her two elbows on the table and leans towards me, narrowly missing the bottle of wine.

  ‘Well, he really wanted to marry me,’ I offer weakly. ‘That must have meant we were in love, right?’

  ‘People get married for all sorts of reasons.’

  I ignore that. That’s a notion I definitely don’t want to think about.

  ‘He was so smitten,’ I say. ‘He chased me – you know, really pursued me – like in a romance novel.’

  ‘And he persuaded you to marry him?’

  ‘Yeah. I was so blown away by it all, I guess I didn’t worry too much about how I really felt. I was just swept along…’

  As I say it, I realize it’s true. I was so overcome by all the romance and grand gestures that I didn’t take the time to examine my own true feelings. My stomach flips at the thought.

  ‘Is there another woman, do you think?’ Carla asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I think about what Tanya and Al said, that Charlie having an affair could be the perfect explanation for all this.

  ‘If there was, how would you feel about that?’

  I think about Charlie with someone else, kissing someone else, making love to someone else. If I really loved him I’d be devastated at the thought of him with another woman, surely? But I’m not and I know that can’t be right.

  Carla scratches her turban and twists it about, scowling as she does.

  ‘Would you mind if I took this damn thing off?’ she asks, and before I can answer she wrenches it from her head and a mane of glossy chestnut hair falls to her shoulders.

  I gasp. She has beautiful hair. I can’t imagine for a minute why she would hide it all under such a hideous polyester wrap.

  ‘I like to keep something for myself.’ She smiles slowly, seeing my expression. ‘I know what people say about me – that I’m plain and past it. This is a side that no one gets to see but me, and that’s the way I like to keep it. Well, no one but me and my lovers of course!’ She laughs throatily. ‘That bitch Noreen Brady might have a fight on her hands for the number one slot on the best-sellers list this year. She thinks she’s all that with her brassy hair and her fake boobs, but I scrub up quite well, you know.’