Rubbish Boyfriends

by Jessie Jones

  ‘Ow!’ he winced.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Let me do it,’ he said, pushing my hand away and holding the brightly coloured silk to the wound himself.

  We were both silent for a moment. I listened to the music make its way down the corridor and into the staffroom and I was reminded of the last time I was alone with a man in a private room in a flashy nightclub. I giggled at the memory.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Nothing much. Listen, you should really get some stitches in that.’

  ‘No need,’ he said. ‘You didn’t tell me, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I could ask the same of you.’

  ‘It’s a job, isn’t it? I can’t afford to turn down the work.’

  ‘But what about the gym? And what happened to being a TV star?’

  He looked down at his feet.

  ‘Simon?’ I nudged.

  ‘I blew out the audition,’ he mumbled. ‘So the gym went a bit mental. Said it reflected on them ’cause they’d put me up for the telly thing, bollocks like that.’

  ‘And what, they fired you?’

  ‘Kind of. I suppose.’

  I felt terrible. He’d blown out the opportunity of a lifetime because he’d had a funeral to go to. And he didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing that I knew he’d turned up at the graveside. Then I felt even worse because I remembered treating him appallingly the last time I’d seen him. I had to apologise immediately.

  ‘Simon, I feel really –’

  ‘Dayna, there you are!’ It was Cristian. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been gone for ages.’

  ‘It’s only been a couple of minutes,’ I replied, smiling so brightly he’d never be able to tell how much he was annoying me.

  ‘I was just worried. With the fight and everything.’ He looked at Simon. ‘You OK, man?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem … man,’ Simon muttered. Then he looked at me. ‘I’ll be all right now … If you wanna … You know …’

  I knew.

  Cristian took my arm again and this time I let him lead me away. As we headed back, he said, ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Oh, he was bleeding. Quite badly. I couldn’t not help, could I? Not with my medical training.’

  ‘Medical training?’

  ‘Have you seen the books I had to read at college? Believe me, I’m practically a doctor. Anyway, I had to stop the bleeding, didn’t I?’

  ‘With your scarf?’ he said. He paused before asking, ‘Do you know him?’

  I paused before answering, ‘No … No, I don’t.’

  And I wasn’t really lying. Hadn’t recent events proved that you can never truly know someone?

  I had my chance to apologise to Simon a few days later. He phoned my mobile to tell me he wanted to give me my scarf back. ‘I wouldn’t normally bother about an old scrap of nylon or whatever,’ he said, ‘but it looks a bit pricey.’ He had no idea.

  ‘Why don’t you come round for a coffee?’ I suggested.

  ‘To your boyfriend’s?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m hardly ever there,’ I exclaimed as I took in the glorious view of Primrose Hill. ‘Come to mine.’

  ‘OK, see you in an hour.’

  I’d never moved as fast as I did then. I got there ten minutes ahead of him. Just enough time to throw open the windows to air the place; give it a bit of a lived-in feel.

  ‘That was Cristian at the club, then?’ he asked as soon as he was comfy. Sprawled on the sofa, feet on coffee table, biscuit tin on lap. Just like the old days. I looked at the cut on his cheek. It was held together with a couple of butterfly strips and it was a bit scabby, but he’d been right – the scar was going to suit him.

  ‘That was Cristian,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Likes his hair gel, doesn’t he?’ he said.

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘So, Dayna, let me get this straight. You haven’t worked at all since … You know. You just sit around Cristian’s flat all day making cappuccinos. Is that right?’

  How the hell did he know? Had he been sitting on Primrose Hill with a pair of high-power binoculars? No, of course he hadn’t. He’d been talking to bloody Hannah.

  ‘Well, Mila said there’s no urgency,’ I replied casually. ‘My job’s open indefinitely.’

  ‘Mila’s his mum, right?’

  God, was there anything she hadn’t told him? Of course not. Hannah’s capacity for gossip was legendary. He probably knew Mila’s hat size and Cristian’s inside leg measurement.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ I said, ‘but she’s also my boss and –’

  ‘But it helps that she’s also his mum. Look, I’m not having a go. It’s a cushy number. I’d stick with Gel Head if I were you.’

  ‘Simon! Don’t be mean. He’s a fantastic bloke. He’s kind and generous and really interesting. And he’s into football.’ (Well, I didn’t want to make him sound like some sort of wussy tosser, did I?) ‘And he’s an entrepreneur.’

  ‘I know that word,’ he said. ‘It’s French for tosser, isn’t it?’

  ‘Shut up! An entrepreneur is a … Never mind. He’s a great bloke.’

  ‘Yeah, he looks it.’

  ‘And we love each other.’

  ‘I’m very happy for you.’

  ‘And I’m having a baby.’

  He spat out bits of biscuit and tea dribbled from his nostrils. ‘You’re pregnant?’

  ‘No, not yet. But I will be. I want to have a baby.’

  ‘His baby?’

  Hmm, interesting question.

  No, it wasn’t a time for doubt. Not when I had Simon taking the piss out of the Man of My Dreams. ‘Yes, his baby,’ I said very, very firmly.

  ‘But, Dayna, come on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s a dickhead!’

  ‘Get lost, Simon!’ I really yelled that to make it absolutely clear that I didn’t agree with him one bit. ‘He’s fantastic. And he loves me. He’d never hurt me, which is a damn sight more than I can say about you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, looking genuinely offended. ‘I wouldn’t hurt you. I’ve gone out of my way to do stuff for you.’

  ‘Yes, you have, I’m sorry,’ I said, for once saying the right thing at the right time. After all, this was the man who’d turned down the chance of a lifetime and lost a job, all on my account, and he hadn’t tried to claim any brownie points for it. ‘I was just talking about when we were going out. You know what you were like.’

  He blushed. ‘Yeah, you might have mentioned it the last time I came round,’ he muttered.

  ‘God, I was a bitch, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Slightly.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. I’d just found out some awful stuff about Dad and I was really angry and upset and I wasn’t thinking straight and –’

  ‘Look, forget about it. I have. Anyway, it made me think.’

  Huh? I’d made Simon think?

  ‘About what?’ I asked.

  ‘You know. All that stuff you were saying … about your dad … and me and my sex … um … addiction … and that.’

  ‘Right, the sex … addiction,’ I said, struggling not to laugh.

  ‘I’m really trying to change, you know.’ He was looking at me with puppy-dog eyes that begged me to believe him. ‘I’ve been clean for two weeks.’

  I couldn’t keep it in any longer and burst out laughing. Luckily, so did he.

  ‘I just mean I haven’t been seeing anyone,’ he explained. ‘It’s been really tough as well. You saw what that new club’s like. Wall-to-wall supermodels. And I swear Caprice was giving me the come-on last night. But I’m not giving in. I’m not an addict. Addiction’s for wimps.’

  ‘Good for you, Simon,’ I said and I meant it. Maybe people could change. It was just a pity Dad hadn’t stuck around for long enough to learn from Simon’s example. ‘So, what else is going on?’ I asked, keen to move the subject away from anything th
at reminded me of Dad. ‘You looking for another gym job?’

  ‘No, I’ll stick with the bouncing for a while, have a bit of a think.’

  There he went with the thinking thing again. What was going on?

  ‘Personal training’s all a bit wanky to be honest,’ he continued. ‘These City types aren’t really into getting fit. Not properly fit.’

  I thought of Max and his five-grand-a-year gym in Soho. Was he fit? He barely had the strength to pull the membership card from his wallet. Simon had a point, then, but he’d put so much effort into passing his exams. And so had I, damn it.

  ‘But you can’t change careers again,’ I said. ‘Not after all the work we – you – put in.’

  He shrugged and changed the subject. ‘What about your career?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll go back to work when I’m ready … Soon … Any day, actually.’

  ‘Maybe you won’t,’ he murmured. ‘Maybe you’re happy being a lady of leisure. Are you and him gonna get married?’

  ‘No … Yes … Maybe. We haven’t decided.’

  ‘Hmm, you don’t sound too sure about the father of your baby.’

  I didn’t like this turn in the conversation. It was making me feel extremely uncomfortable. Not because it was making me question my commitment to Cristian. Not at all. Just that I didn’t like Simon’s sly tone.

  ‘I’m totally one hundred per cent sure about him, thank you very much,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ He shuffled his bum along the sofa until his hip was pressed against mine and his arm was round my back. ‘Would your commitment survive if it was really put to the test?’ he whispered into my ear, his mouth nuzzling against my lobe.

  I shoved him hard and yelled, ‘Get off, you creep! God, you haven’t changed at all, have you? Once a cheating arse, always a cheating arse.’

  ‘I was only having a laugh. Sorreeee.’

  ‘Well, it’s not funny, Simon. I love Cristian, he loves me and that’s the end of it, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK!’

  And that really was the end of it. Or, rather, the beginning. On the journey back to Cristian’s I decided I was sick of everyone doubting my commitment to him. Maybe I’d contributed to this. A little bit. But you know what people are like. Show them just one minuscule shred of doubt and they blow it out of all proportion. Well, I could do something about that. I was going to set the sceptics straight once and for all.

  As soon as I got back to the flat I went into the bedroom and pulled out Cristian’s sock drawer. I rooted around until I found the turquoise Tiffany box. I opened it, took out the ring and slipped it onto my finger. Wow! Nearly three carats of diamond can have that effect on a girl. But it wasn’t the ring’s beauty or extravagant price that was sending electrical charges through me. No, it was the fact that I suddenly felt engaged to be married and it was wonderful and thrilling and definitely not scary. At all.

  Ten minutes later I heard Cristian’s key in the lock and I didn’t take the ring off. No, I posed on the sofa, my hand resting artfully on a cushion, making sure the diamond caught the sunlight that was streaming in through the window. He saw it immediately and rushed over to me and smothered me in hugs and kisses. And I didn’t even flick his hand away when he stroked my hair.

  ‘I’m not convinced,’ Suzie said. ‘I’m really not sure about this.’

  ‘You think it’s too flashy?’ I said. ‘It’s almost three carats, you know.’

  ‘I don’t mean the ring, Dayna. The ring’s stunning. No, I’m talking about this whole … engagement. Are you absolutely certain?’

  ‘I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life. Don’t you like him or something?’

  ‘He’s lovely. Gorgeous, courteous, kind … A great catch, no doubt about it. But … are you selling yourself short, though?’

  ‘God, what do you want me to do, Suzie? Hold out for a potential billionaire rather than a potential millionaire? Wait till Brad gets bored with Jen?’

  ‘Brad will never get bored with Jen,’ she said with a smile. ‘No, that’s not what I mean at all. I’m not really talking about Cristian. I’m talking about you. It’s about how you feel in here.’ She pressed her hand against her heart to make her point.

  She looked at me across the table, point made, apparently.

  ‘Look, don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘I’m mad about him, absolutely mad about him.’

  She sat back suddenly. ‘Of course you are. Sorry, it’s none of my business. You know how you feel.’

  Suzie and I had seen each other a few times since that awful bloody Sunday. We hadn’t made an explicit decision not to talk about Dad, just that we hadn’t, that’s all. We hadn’t been able to avoid it at the inquest, mind, although that had mostly involved hearing about him from others. His workmates and the ambulance crew, who described the accident in sickening detail. The doctor and the pathologist, who described his injuries in even more sickening detail. And Bill, who told the coroner about Dad being late and rushing to finish the job. The details? He glossed over those. The woman he’d been with the night before wasn’t called as a witness. The coroner recorded a verdict of accidental death. There’d been no negligence and it was no one’s fault. Well, no one except Dad’s. My day in the coroner’s court triggered a fresh rush of anger because I knew he’d brought it on himself – he’d brought it on all of us.

  That had been over a week ago and this was the first time I’d seen Suzie since. I’d invited her round to Cristian’s for lunch. That was part of my plan to make the place seem more like home. I didn’t want to feel like a guest any more and I figured that if I asked lots of friends to visit me, the flat would seem more like mine. Well, Cristian’s and mine. Everything was going to be ours from now on, wasn’t it?

  ‘Stunning view,’ Suzie said, sipping her mineral water and gazing out of the window. ‘I love Primrose Hill. Kate Moss lives round here, doesn’t she?’

  ‘God, she’s in here borrowing cups of sugar all the time,’ I groaned. ‘Can’t get rid of her.’

  It was good to hear her laugh. There’d been too little of that lately.

  ‘Cappuccino?’ I said, standing up and heading for the kitchen. ‘I can make it seven different ways, you know.’

  ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I could murder a cup of tea.’

  ‘Tea it is.’

  As I waited for the kettle to boil she appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘We should talk, you know.’

  I knew what she meant and I didn’t want to talk about him. ‘He was despicable,’ I snapped. ‘I hate him and I’ll never forgive him.’

  ‘You only hate him because you loved him. He let you down.’

  ‘Let me down? Dad let us all down. I honestly don’t know how you can defend him. I mean, your first husband cheated on you as well, right? I’ve never heard you stand up for him.’

  ‘He wasn’t like Michael at all,’ she said bitterly. ‘He was just a control freak who wanted to run my life. As soon as someone younger and prettier showed up, he went off to run hers instead. He was such a bastard.’

  ‘And Dad wasn’t?’

  ‘But he loved me. My first husband didn’t love me at all, and that was the difference. Your dad did some terrible things, yes, but there was so much good in him as well.’

  I thought of Mark and his there’s-good-in-everyone speech – even Hitler, he’d claimed, though I think he’d been joking about that. ‘Anyway, that’s why Cristian is so right for me,’ I told her. ‘He’d never do what Dad did. He’s trustworthy, reliable.’

  ‘Reliable is good,’ she said. ‘But it’s nothing without passion. I couldn’t trust your dad as far as I could throw him, but I’ve never felt so passionate about anyone.’

  Well, good for her. Fat lot of good her passion did her in the end, though, right?

  I had an L-plate stuck to my chest and a novelty veil perched on my head. My miniskirt was riding so far up my thighs it was more of a boob tube gone wrong. The stripper
was down to his g-string and his bum was in my face. So close, I could smell his … cologne!

  Eurrggh! What did you think I was going to say?

  A male stripper! On a hen night! What a totally brilliant and original idea, Emily! It was actually the tackiest I’d ever felt in my life. But it didn’t stop me from whooping along with everyone else as a muscle-bound man wearing only dental floss thrust his bits in my face. We’d screamed like pre-teens at a Busted concert when he’d slipped out of his policeman’s jacket. Now that he was just one tiny item away from full-frontal nudity, we were completely hysterical. Not just me and my hen-night buddies either, but every woman in the bar. This wasn’t some flashy West End club, you see. No, it was the Lancaster.

  Cristian hadn’t been able to understand it. ‘The Lancaster?’ he’d said. ‘Why there? I can get you into the VIP area at Chinawhite.’

  ‘But I like the Lancaster,’ I’d explained.

  ‘Hey, I’ll book you a private room at Soho House.’

  ‘I like the Lancaster.’

  ‘Browns?’

  ‘Cristian, the Lancaster is where my dad and I used to go.’

  That had shut him up.

  Anyway, we were only starting out at the Lancaster. After that, I was sure we’d be heading for Browns, the House, Chinawhite … Actually, I had no idea. Emily had formed a hen-night committee. They’d been planning the event for weeks but I wasn’t privy to any of it. ‘It’s all going to be a surprise,’ Emily had told me. ‘All you have to do is turn up and enjoy your last night as a free woman.’ A little bit dramatic, given my wedding wasn’t for another week. Whatever, the evening was officially known as Dayna’s Last Night of Freedom. Emily had told me she’d be keeping a clear head so she could make sure that everything ran like clockwork. What a relief, I thought, watching her grind her hips into the stripper’s as she fed a tenner into the tiny leopard-print pouch that was attached to his dental floss. I estimated that she was two drinks ahead of me. God, if Max could have seen her …