How Not to Fall in Love, Actually

by Catherine Bennetto

  I grabbed the stool and pulled it up to the desk as close as my belly would allow without taking my eyes from the screen. It showed a wobbly, high angle of the footpath (probably from the very office I was now in) and was focused on a postman opening a gate a few doors up from my cottage and heading out of shot, presumably to post the mail through the slot in the door. How very white supremacist of him.

  ‘That’s the postman,’ Harriet divulged.

  ‘You don’t say.’

  Harriet lifted her chin. The postman came out of the property, pulled the gate shut behind him and walked down the footpath.

  ‘He shut the gate,’ I said. ‘I guess that means he’s not a Nazi.’

  Harriet grumbled and fast-forwarded. The postman broke into jumpy mail delivery pausing only to pat a cat (pat, not shave, I pointed out to a starchy Harriet) and then he headed speedily out of shot. The screen went blank for a minute and then came to life again from the same high angle but now looking in the other direction at Joe’s asparagus bed in my back garden. Harriet stopped fast-forwarding.

  ‘Look at those asparagus!’ Harriet’s voice from the playback said with pride, as if the abundant spears were her accomplishment.

  The wobbly footage captivated Harriet and a wrinkly smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. The frame jiggled, as if the person filming had been distracted, then panned to the left and framed up on my French doors being opened from the inside. Joe materialised in the open doorway and appeared to be talking to someone inside but I couldn’t make anything out through the glass doors. A strategically placed climbing rose in a large pot obscured my view. I say strategically because it had been placed there after I’d thought I was alone one day and a flash of sunlight across a lens had alerted me to the fact that Harriet was documenting me wandering the house in my functional maternity underpants which had elastic challenges. Joe had kindly visited his much-loved garden centre and purchased a plant that didn’t drop its leaf, flowered in the summer and encouraged organic bees, or whatever. For me, it was merely a sweet-scented shield from a sweet old lady I was considering getting a restraining order for. On the screen Joe took a step onto the terrace and gestured to the garden. A slim form moved closer to the doorframe but remained half in shadow and half behind the organic bee rose. All I could make out was a slender arm, the side-on outline of a small bust and a flash of blond hair underneath a pale fedora with a dark ribbon. In a futile attempt to see a better image I moved my head from side to side trying to get a look round the plant.

  Harriet gave me a strange look.

  ‘Didn’t you get a better angle?’ I said, annoyed.

  ‘Well I would have if someone hadn’t placed that climbing perennial in the way.’

  On the screen Joe slid his phone out of his shorts pocket, pressed the screen a few times and held it to his ear. He paced the courtyard, said something into the phone then replaced it in his pocket. He turned and looked like he was heading inside, then paused, put his arms out imitating either a fat lady or – I clenched my teeth – a large pregnant girl, and waddled back inside, grinning. He was making fun of me. To some pretty blonde answering, I assumed, to the name of Katy the Cheating Whore-bag.

  Harriet’s astute gaze weighed heavily.

  Joe pulled the French doors shut; there was a brief shadowy movement behind the glass then nothing but the glint of the afternoon sun bouncing off the windows.

  Harriet pressed pause and shifted in her chair. I stared at the frozen image of my French doors.

  ‘They were inside for quite a while,’ she said gently.

  ‘They left together?’

  She nodded, keeping her wet sparkly eyes on me.

  ‘Where’d they go?’ I asked weakly, as if Harriet’s camera was some radical new model and could reach much further than the edge of the common. Maybe to Joe and Katy’s apartment, able to see them tearing their clothes off each other.

  ‘I don’t know, dear.’ Harriet frowned. ‘I ran out of battery.’ She gave the camera charging on the desk a peevish look.

  I picked at my fingernails and wondered why I felt so . . . so . . . what did I feel?

  Harriet studied me.

  ‘I think you missed out on that one, dear. Shame.’ She clicked a few buttons, restoring the computer to its desktop screen, a photo of Arthur and her outside the Chelsea Flower Show.

  I felt as if I’d been hit in the solar plexus. And I wasn’t really sure where that was, exactly, but it sounded serious and anyway, my chest felt tight and heavy.

  Missed out?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The first thing I saw when I opened my front door was a pale fedora with a dark ribbon sitting on the hall table.

  In the short walk, OK, waddle (Joe was correct if not offensive) from Harriet’s house to mine, a seething dislike for Katy had revealed itself. And by the time I’d clicked my picket gate shut, I’d arrived at the obvious conclusion that the only reason I was filled with such hatred was because I was in love with Joe. And I would never have considered this if Helen hadn’t been drunk and put those three previously ungrouped things (him; me; love) in my head in the first place.

  On the walk down my front path I’d tapped out a text to Alex. Having realised my feelings for Joe at such an inopportune time (story of my life – the ‘inopportune time’ seemed to be the only timescale I knew) I needed to make amends with my sister. People were dropping out of my life like coconuts off a palm tree in a storm and, out of everyone, she was one person I needed back. I missed her more than I would one day miss my pelvic floor. I pressed send on the simply worded text ‘I’m sorry. I miss you’, took a fortifying breath and shut the front door.

  ‘Emma?’ Joe’s voice carried from the other end of the house.

  I tossed my keys next to the horrible hat (it wasn’t horrible, it was actually very nice, very on-trend and something my mother would have wanted me to wear) and made my way towards the kitchen. Joe appeared at the other end of the hall looking terribly concerned.

  ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking all over.’

  ‘Why?’ I said, ignoring how his genuine worry ripped at the edges of my already messed-up heart. And really? He’d hardly looked all over. I’d been at our much-frequented local pub, home and the next-door neighbour’s. What an appalling personal investigator he would make.

  ‘We were worried.’

  We? Him and Harlot du Fedora?

  Mum appeared at his side. ‘Darling, where have you been? You’ve had us all worried!’

  Before I could answer, or even enquire as to why Mum was hanging out with Joe and his newly reappointed fiancée, or why she was holding my favourite maternity leggings and a large pair of scissors, another figure approached from behind. I arranged my face into one of polite interest so as to face this wheat-haired, fashionable-hat-wearing, careless-with-tender-hearts whore-bag with a malfunctioning moral compass and not have her see my current state of heart and mind. But I needn’t have bothered. Because Mum and Joe stepped apart and the approaching figure was my sister.

  My mouth fell open.

  Alex gave an expectant smile.

  Mum gave an expectant smile.

  Joe gave an expectant smile.

  I didn’t. My mouth was busy making the ‘O’ shape.

  ‘I miss you too,’ Alex said, holding up her phone.

  She glanced at my protruding stomach. Nobody said anything. They were waiting for my reaction, but unfortunately for them I had none. I’d made it halfway down the hall and it seemed like that was as far as I was going to get. If my sister wanted to engage she was going to have to make the next six steps by herself.

  Which she did. At flying speed.

  Before I was able to fully adjust my reality – no whore-bag; sister here; must apologise for abhorrent behaviour; Joe looks nice in that shade of blue; was Alex wearing a wedding band (?!); get those bloody scissors away from Mum – I was in her tight embrace. I couldn’t think of what to say. How could I convey th
at the last few months I’d barely been coping and had been trying to hide it from everyone? That I’d been living on the very stressful edge of losing control? Control of my mind, control of my life, control of my bladder at times? That the one person I wanted around, the one person I knew would make it all better, was her? That I’d never forgive myself for behaving like an ungrateful psycho when she’d only ever wanted to help me? For not being a good sister; a good friend? For not being a support on the other end of the line, skype or text like she always, always had been for me? How could I let her know all of that, and also that I was sorry?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I blubbed, clasping my hands across her back.

  She smelt like flowers and grass and a coconutty shampoo.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said from somewhere inside my ponytail. She squeezed me tighter. With my feet standing far enough away to allow room for my stomach, the top half of my body bent forward in the embrace and the weight of the hanging baby belly straining my lower back, I was enduring a fair amount of discomfort. Had I not been pregnant I would have looked like one of those unusual people who are so worried about their genitals touching when they hug that they keep their lower half as far away from the other person as gravity and physics will allow. Like hugging over the top of a wine bar without the wine bar. When the pain got too much I planted the heels of my hands on her shoulders and hefted myself to an upright position.

  ‘How are you even here?’ I asked, looking over her shoulder to where Joe was grinning and Mum was wiping away a tear.

  ‘By the magic of Virgin Airlines,’ she said, rubbing my belly. ‘Oh my god, you are so big.’

  I grabbed her left hand. ‘And what exactly is this?’ I said, indicating a thin band sitting alongside an engagement ring.

  ‘Ah, that.’ Alex pulled her hand back and fiddled with the rings. ‘I got married.’

  Over cups of tea and slices of cake, Alex told us she and Cal had snuck off to a register office in Singapore and just got it done. No enormous guest list at a castle; no amuse-bouches, personalised gift bags or textured linen invites. No ice sculptor, no duck terrine. Apparently the day I’d been blubbing to Joe on the common about missing my sister was the day she’d got married. The sting I felt at this realisation took my breath away. I cried again. Alex cried. Mum cried and handed out scented tissues. Even Joe asked for one but only because ‘a bee or something had flown into his eye’. I’d made a suggestion that perhaps it was a passing red-footed falcon and was met with scorn. It was the next day, while Alex was nursing a hangover at the airport and marvelling at her sudden ‘married’ status, that she got a call from Joe.

  ‘You just rang her up?’ I said to Joe. ‘How’d you even get the number?’

  ‘From me,’ Mum said.

  ‘So you knew about this?’

  ‘Everyone knew,’ Joe replied.

  ‘Everyone? Even Sinead and Uncle Mike?’

  ‘Yep,’ Alex said. ‘I was supposed to turn up at Uncle Mike’s for your baby shower and surprise you.’

  ‘But darling, you ruined the plan by being financially buggered then sulking about it and storming out,’ Mum said.

  ‘I wasn’t sulking,’ I said, feeling a sulk coming on. ‘Anyway, Millie got stung by a bee.’ I turned to Joe. ‘An actual bee, not a falcon.’

  He furnished me with a V sign.

  ‘And, darling, this ice cream problem? And your financial situation?’ Mum tut-tutted. ‘We still need to talk about that.’

  I avoided her gaze.

  ‘I’m not mad, I’m just worried.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want you to be worried. I’m going to sort it all out, OK?’

  ‘How?’

  I helped myself to another wedge of cake. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum. I really will, OK? I have a plan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To eat this cake.’

  Mum administered herself some whisky. I turned back to Alex’s iPad and flicked once again through her photos of the register office.

  ‘Do you mind, Mum?’ I asked. ‘That you missed it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, darling,’ Mum said, smoothing down Alex’s hair. ‘I’m relieved I won’t be getting any more emails from that Lucinda woman.’ Mum shuddered. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t have a wedding, though. You’ve missed out on the gift registry.’

  Alex screwed her face up. ‘We wouldn’t have done that anyway. We were going to get everyone to donate to charity.’

  Mum looked at Alex like she’d said she was moving to Cambodia and was planning on getting there on a raft made of rusty kettles and almond nougat. ‘Charity?’

  ‘Yes, Mum. The act of giving to those less fortunate? We don’t need a load of pretty plates and dessert forks.’

  ‘Yes, but when you eventually settle down you’ll want nice things for your house, surely?’

  I extracted myself from the ensuing argument about niceties versus necessities and made myself busy in the kitchen, stealing glances at Joe interacting comfortably with my family. He laughed frequently, the grin lighting up his face. Oh, that handsome face! When did he become so, so handsome?

  Having missed out on the barbecue at Uncle Mike and Sinead’s because of the pathetic search-and-rescue attempt (I mean, really. Where did they look? Under the cushions?), I cobbled together a mixed antipasto plate (one’s cupboard must always be ‘with olive’); which we attacked like starved cats, then sat about lounging in the living room sipping gin and tonics (Mum and Alex), a beer (Joe) and fizzy water (sigh . . . me). Alex had hovered around me as I moved about the kitchen; she’d trotted at my side when I went to the bedroom to hide my second-favourite pair of leggings. On the sofa she pretty much sat on my knee. I felt like I had my own moon.

  ‘God, it just doesn’t seem real. I’m going to be an aunty.’ Alex gave my stomach another of her long, wondrous looks.

  I was starting to feel like an oddity.

  Joe got up from the sofa, crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘And I’m going to be Cool Uncle Joe.’ He retrieved a beer, slammed the fridge door shut and popped the bottle open with a hiss. ‘The go-to guy for advice on gardens, graphics and girls.’ He beamed.

  ‘Girls? Seriously?’ I laughed.

  He made an ugly face. It was still handsome.

  ‘Right.’ Mum extracted her long limbs from the armchair. ‘I’m going home. I’m having my colours done in the morning.’

  ‘I thought you had your colours done ages ago?’ Alex said.

  ‘Yes, but as we advance in maturity—’

  ‘You mean, age?’ I said.

  Mum stood over me. ‘Advance in maturity—’

  ‘Get old.’

  ‘The skin’s tone and texture changes, and it becomes essential to get your colours adjusted.’

  ‘Mum, you might need to look up the word essential,’ Alex said.

  Mum sighed a here-we-go-again type sigh.

  ‘Clean drinking water is essential.’ Alex held up a finger for each point. ‘Equality for women of all nationalities across the world is essential. Food, shelter and safe, supportive communities are essential. Making sure your blouse is the right shade of peach for your skin tone is certainly not essential.’

  We looked at Mum. Her attention was elsewhere. Evening dress racks at Harrods, perhaps.

  ‘Isabel Marant has a new peach range . . .’ Mum tapped her chin with a bordeaux nail. She snapped back into focus. ‘OK, darlings, must go.’

  Joe stood, ever the gentleman.

  ‘Don’t get up, Emma,’ Mum said.

  ‘I wasn’t going to. Have you seen the size of me?’

  Mum made an ‘I most certainly have’ kind of facial expression. ‘And please try not to go into labour this weekend. I’m breaking in new jeans, so will be unavailable to assist.’

  ‘I’ll keep my legs crossed,’ I said.

  Alex giggled and rubbed my stomach playing the ‘is it a bum or a head’ game while Joe walked Mum to the front door and agreed with her denim ‘
training’ schedule.

  ‘I can’t believe he just called you.’ I passed Alex a pillowcase. ‘Just . . . rang you up.’

  ‘Yup,’ Alex said, holding a pillow under her chin and feeding it into one of Grandma’s faded floral pillowcases.

  ‘And you got on a plane right away?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Alex plumped the pillow, tossed it on the bed then took the corner of the matching floral sheet I held out to her.

  Alex liked her bed made military-style, with proper hospital corners and not a single crease anywhere. It was an effort in anyone’s world but at nearly nine months pregnant I was limited in my movements. Like a rhino doing yoga, it just wasn’t physically sensible. We pulled up the thin summer duvet, each holding a top corner and lining it up so the exact same amount fell down over each side of the bed. It was nearly 11 p.m. and, even under the tropical tan, Alex was starting to look a little peaky with jet lag.

  ‘So what did he say exactly?’

  Alex groaned and began unpacking her backpack into an empty chest of drawers.

  ‘He said,’ she glared at me emphatically, letting me know she had already told me this a hundred times and now I was just being annoying. ‘That he thought you were unhappy and that I could make you happy.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And that made you come home? Just because of me?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I stood at the end of the bed and watched Alex unload colourful tops and rustic-looking leather flip-flops, feeling truly humbled. I marvelled again at her presence. I hadn’t seen her since Christmas a year and a half ago, yet it never seemed that long because we spoke, emailed or texted nearly every day.

  ‘Joe really cares about you,’ Alex said, shutting the drawers and pushing her backpack under the bed.

  ‘I care about him.’ I plopped despondently down on the bed but a sharp look from Alex had me hoisting myself off quick smart.

  ‘Is there anything there?’

  ‘With Joe?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Oh god, no.’ I moved towards the door. ‘No way. He’s just a lodger. I mean, we’re friendly, of course, and he’s a great guy, obviously but no, he’s . . . just a lodger,’ I trailed off.