Head Over Heels

by Sara Downing

  ‘Lovely top, reminds me of that meeting.....’ He screws up his eyes and leans towards me again as he waits for his words to take effect. Now I really am blushing. I’m not imagining it, he is flirting with me. And I am finding it hard to be the ‘career flirt’ I normally am; detached but amusing and flattering. Seeing how flustered I am, he makes an attempt to change the subject, but as he starts to engage me in serious conversation, his knee brushes against mine and it is as though someone has wired me up to the mains. I feel the jolt go through me. I wonder if he felt it too.

  I glance worriedly across at Mark again to check for a reaction; he doesn’t appear to have noticed how flustered and pink I am looking. Fortunately Evie has him captivated.

  Actually I am really enjoying the feeling, now that I have overcome the initial intense embarrassment and my face is starting to cool down. It reminds me of when Mark and I met; that buzz of excitement and anticipation, only this time it’s tempered with guilt, as I know I shouldn’t be feeling it. Sitting opposite me is my gorgeous fiancé, who I love and worship with all my heart, and with whom I am trying to have a baby. What is happening here?

  The evening wears on, Alex produces some beautiful food, and much wine is consumed by all. As Mark and I have the advantage of being able to walk home later, we are both drinking copiously. At some point I give a vague shrug of recognition to the fact that maybe both of us should be cutting down our alcohol intake, if our fertility stands any chance of succeeding, but then I think, oh well, it's only early days, plenty of time for all that later, what the hell, and carry on drinking. Besides which, I’m not pregnant yet, am I? I never drink to excess really these days anyway. Gone are the student days of drinking myself into oblivion and not remembering how I got home. Nowadays I tend to slow down or stop completely when I can feel myself going too far. I love the buzz of having a few drinks and the way it makes me feel, but when that starts to turn sour I like to stop.

  We reach that point in the evening where the music gets turned up, stories get more drunken and revealing, and confidences and confessions are revealed. Tom has spent the evening talking almost exclusively to me, apart from the moments when we have been obliged to join in the whole-party conversation or risk looking rude. I have had Graham to my right, and the end of the table, and I don’t always find him stimulating company, although tonight he has been very pleasant and we’ve chatted a bit. So, frissons and flirting aside, I am grateful to have Tom to my left, and he has been witty, amusing, and more than a little bit flirtatious. Only now I am getting used to this new flirty Tom and giving as good as I get. He’s not my boss this evening, just someone I can have a bit of fun with at a boozy dinner party. I’ve overcome my initial shyness and am enjoying every minute of it. I wonder if maybe a bit too much?

  Tom tells me a lot more about his ex-girlfriend than I’d ever heard before. He tends to keep things fairly close to his chest at work, and is generally every inch the professional head teacher. I’m the same though; I hate people's dirty laundry being aired in public at the best of times, and a school is no place for that. It turns out he had lived with Sophie for over a year; they’d talked about getting married, having children and buying a house together, but had never made any definitive plans in terms of a timescale for it all. Then they had started to drift apart for no apparent reason, she was spending more and more time away from the flat they shared, and he had found out, via a friend of his, that she had been spotted with another man in a restaurant nearby. The friend had broken the news to him that it had looked a bit more than just platonic, and Tom had confronted her. Apparently she had been having an affair with this man, someone she worked with, for over six months. He was distraught to find out that she had been cheating on him for more than half the time they had lived together, and that it had all started round about the moment they began to discuss settling down permanently.

  ‘I don't understand how she could do that to me,’ he tells me, the signs of pain rearing their ugly heads once more as he rakes over old wounds.

  ‘It completely threw me, I couldn't cope. I withdrew from everything, friends, family, the lot. It was only work that kept me going, I had no option there but to carry on as normal.’

  It has made him very untrusting, he says. He has started to see someone, he tells me, but only recently, and he’s taking that very slowly, one step at a time, and not rushing into anything.

  At that bolt of unexpected news, I feel something contract inside me, like someone has grabbed hold of my stomach and squeezed. I realise I am jealous of her, this new woman in his life, whoever she is. Why should he be single for one minute though; he is a complete catch, young, gorgeous and with a good job that, OK, will never make him rich, but will set him up more comfortably than most, and it’s a secure career path, too.

  I wonder what she looks like? I had only met Sophie the once, and she had been a real stunner, equally matched to Tom on the looks scale, but there had been something about her that was at odds with the beautiful exterior, a side to her that I could not quite put my finger on. When Tom tells me how she broke his heart, somehow it doesn’t surprise me. She obviously had it in her. I probe gently to see if I can find out any more about the new girlfriend, carefully so as not to look too interested. Apparently she is a teacher in Worcester; Tom met her at a conference and they have been friends for a while, with the relationship gradually developing into a bit more than that. But he is very wary, he says, he won't be moving in with anyone or making any serious plans for a long time yet. So he can't be that keen on her then, can he? That’s reassuring to know, for some strange reason. I manage to convince myself it’s purely because I wouldn’t want him to see him hurt again.

  ‘So what about you and Mark then, Grace? Are marriage and babies on the horizon for you?’ Tom asks, successfully deflecting interest from his own love life, but without realising how close to the wind he is sailing.

  ‘Should you be asking me that as my boss?’ I reply. ‘I don't want you marking that up on my file and lining up my replacement if I say yes!’

  ‘No chance, Grace, you are irreplaceable, and a very special member of my team, you know that. Whatever you decide to do is fine by me. I'm just interested to know. I'm not contingency planning or anything!’

  I hope I haven't offended him. And that hope makes me want to confide in him. I tell him that Mark and I are just thinking about starting a family, and about the marriage issue. I explain how Mark is really keen to get cracking on having kids, and how I want to get married first. I try to explain to him how I had never really imagined myself as a mother.

  ‘I just don't know if I have it in me,’ I confide. ‘I love the children at the school, but being a parent yourself, well, it's all a bit scary and grown-up.’

  He puts his hand on mine, looks into my eyes and smiles, and that is enough. He’s right – he has definitely cast his headmaster’s hat aside for the time being. The vibes he is transmitting are not of the professional variety.

  That aside, I'm not really sure exactly what he can say to me at this point; he doesn't have the woman's perspective on things that my close girlfriends do, so isn’t qualified to offer advice or experience. And although he may not be acting like it, he is my boss, so obviously he doesn’t want to lose me to motherhood when my career is so well established and I’m part of a very small team. Whilst I am talking, he is focussed on me the whole time, intent on what I am saying, as though there is no one else in the room. Mark is absent from the table; he was last spotted carrying a pile of plates into the kitchen with Alex, so fortunately is well out of earshot. I'm not sure he would appreciate me sharing all this personal stuff with another man, not least my boss. Tom doesn’t attempt to offer an opinion on it all though, and I am grateful for that.

  He lightens the tone with his next comment: ‘Have you ever thought about what your name would be if you marry Mark, Grace? You’d be Mrs Hopper, Grace Hopper, that sounds a bit like Space Hopper, doesn’t it!’ he laughs.
r />   ‘You’d better not wear orange with a name like that!’ he goes on. ‘At least you are lovely and slim, so there’s never any chance you could look like a space hopper, you’re far too gorgeous.’ His eyes twinkle mischievously.

  I laugh, but he is back to the flirting. I feel like I need a break from it so I excuse myself and head for the loo. Nearing the kitchen door, I can hear Mark and Alex talking, and when I grasp the topic of conversation, I stop short, just out of their line of vision, before it’s too late and I’m spotted. Although eavesdropping isn't generally my thing, I feel compelled to hear more.

  ‘She doesn't really want to do it, you know,’ I hear him saying to Alex. ‘I wish I had known that sooner.’ I feel a jolt go through me. How can they be so openly discussing our plans to start a family? And what does he mean, he wishes he’d known sooner? Would he never have settled down with me if he’d known how reluctant I am to bear his children? I consider whether the same could be said for me and his inability to commit?

  ‘I really hope she comes round to it. She's said we can go ahead and try but I don't really think her heart is in it. I love her and everything, but this is so hard.’ I am startled; this is more than Mark has ever revealed to me. He'd made his views known and is good at doing the whole lawyer thing of putting his case forward, but when it comes to disclosing his feelings, he can be pretty reticent.

  I feel betrayed by both of them. By Mark because of what he had just revealed to my friend, and by Alex too as she doesn't immediately leap to my defence. I know she cares for us both, but she is my friend first and foremost, not Mark's. Shouldn't she be saying something to make him go back and talk to me, not be nodding sympathetically and making all the right noises to show that she understands how he feels?

  I am glued to the spot, and although I don’t like what I am hearing, I have to see it through. Not only that, if I move now, they will know I have heard everything. I can’t just breeze past innocently.

  ‘Poor you,’ I hear Alex say to Mark. ‘I can see how it must be hard for you. I couldn't imagine life without my kids. I can’t remember what it was like before they came along. I do remember Peter and I both suddenly wanted to get on with starting a family at about the same time, so we never really had these issues. You can understand to a degree though where Grace is coming from.’ Finally my best friend is sticking up for me. ‘She loves her career and feels fulfilled with what she has already. And that must mean she is blissfully happy with you, Mark, otherwise she would want more to fill her life, wouldn’t she?’

  Whether Mark is mollified by this or not I don't know, I can't see them and therefore can’t judge the body language or see the expression on his face. I’m still struggling to understand why he has chosen to confide in Alex. Why can't he open up to me like that? I’m his fiancée for goodness sake. I didn’t realise that he and Alex ever had such deep and meaningful conversations. I didn't think he would consider he knew her well enough. But then maybe he is missing the lack of a male friend to confide in. His closest friend from his student years still lives in the South East and we don't see as much of him and his family as Mark would like. But then men never really seem to open up to each other anyway, do they? It’s all back slapping and talk of mundane day to day things, sport and work, rather than emotional heartfelt conversations. Sometimes it takes a woman to ask the direct questions that get a man talking.

  Although all sorts of thoughts are doing battle in my head, in a way I am relieved for him that he can talk to someone, but I just wish that someone could be me. Up until now I had always thought Mark told me everything; now I’m not so sure. Maybe Alex has just been the catalyst he needed to make him talk; a case of being in the right place at the right time.

  I can’t hold out any longer, I need the loo and I’m not sure I want to hear any more. Breezing past the kitchen door and trying to look as though I have only just left the table, I smile at Mark, who is propping up the Aga, whilst Alex loads dirty dishes into the dishwasher. They look very cosy together. He jumps guiltily to attention on seeing me, and starts stacking some of the dishes on the huge kitchen table. Hopefully neither of them will suspect that I have heard a thing, but that doesn’t stop them looking like a couple of rabbits caught in the headlights.

  On my way back, I pop into the kitchen. Mark has disappeared, but Alex is still there, adding the final flourishes to one of the puddings. It’s a huge pavlova, home made of course; it would be no less than a punishable offence for the owner of an Aga to even consider serving up bought meringue to her guests. Besides which, it always tastes like sugary cardboard compared to the home made stuff. I have lost my appetite though and the sight of all that cream turns my stomach.

  I don't want to let on to Alex at this stage that I overheard her chat with Mark – she will keep. If she has anything to relay back to me I hope I can trust her enough to do so in her own time. If I know her as well as I think I do, then she will. I offer my services to help carry and we head back into the dining room together, laden with bowls, more cream, and the huge fruity pavlova, to a rapturous reception from the remaining seated guests.

  ‘So, Grace, where are you off to on your holidays this year?’ I mentally shake myself down, trying to put what I have overheard to the back of my mind. It’s Graham; he is just being polite and helping to fill a lull in the conversation, whilst Alex heaps vastly overgenerous helpings of puddings into bowls.

  ‘We haven't planned anything yet,’ I confess. ‘It's a bit of a pain that with my job, even though we haven't got children,’ and here I nearly add a ‘yet’ but manage to restrain myself in time (I don't know him well enough to go into all that), ‘we still have to travel at peak time. Can you imagine, with all the holiday we teachers get, if we then asked for more time off in term time?’ I roll my eyes, in a self-deprecating manner. It’s a common bone of contention amongst those not in education, that those of us who are get such long holidays. We end up spending half our lives justifying it, and telling people that we do work extremely hard in term time, and it is very intense and all that, and that we do have to do quite a lot of planning in our own time too. Sadly it never really convinces them, and I know many are just jealous, but I can’t see most people wanting to swap their big fat private sector pay cheques and bonuses for public sector salaries and a two percent annual pay rise – if they’re lucky.

  ‘We’ll probably just end up taking a last minute break late summer,’ I go on. ‘It seems to fit in quite well with Mark's work as a lot of his big clients are on holiday in August. We'll go for a late deal on the web, or something. At least as there are only two of us it's usually quite easy to get sorted. We’re easy to please – just a warm climate and a five-star hotel needed. How about you?’

  ‘Oh I leave all that to Susie normally. We have to go in peak time, too, with the kids, but this year it's easy, we're going back to exactly the same place we went to last year, beautiful villa in Tuscany…….’ I drift off a bit as he pontificates in great detail about all the fabulous things they got up to last year, but manage to nod and mutter in the right places sufficiently to convince him I’m listening.

  ‘Sounds gorgeous, you lucky things,’ I smile at him. I don’t think he noticed I wasn’t paying attention. Hopefully he won’t test me on it later.

  Meanwhile Tom is quietly working his way through a second helping of Alex's delicious apple pie, over my left shoulder, detached from any conversation in particular, but nodding and smiling as though he is taking part in any one that threatens to come his way. I recognise a classic case of ‘bionic ear syndrome’, as I have the feeling he is trying to listen in on my conversation above all the other noise. Mark and I invented the term for those moments when one of you is talking and the other not really paying attention, but tuning in instead to a conversation taking place nearby. All whilst attempting to give the impression that you really are listening to your partner. But it’s usually the glassy-eyed expression that gives it away, and Tom is displaying all the classic s
ymptoms. I suspect he is waiting for Graham to disengage so that he can move in on me again.

  Mark and Alex have slipped back into their places at the table as though they haven't just shared the most private of conversations. Mark is back talking to Evie; the two of them do get on very well, and just seem to laugh all the time. Alex is talking to James, and it sounds like both Brookes are recounting the same humorous tale about one of their recent holidays, but in two very slightly different versions. Neither of them has realised, so hearing it across the table in almost-stereo is quite amusing, as each of them is at a different stage in of the story.

  ‘So Grace, how did you and Mark meet? I know you’re fairly new to this area,’ Tom asks. ‘Were you an item when you came to live round here?’

  Good effort, Tom. The very minute Graham stops talking, he sees his window of opportunity and goes for it, turning towards me to make sure I am his captive audience, yet again. Safe territory though, talking about my partner to another man, the latter whom, as of this evening, I am finding uncomfortably attractive.

  So I set about regaling Tom with the story of how it all happened. Our story needs no embellishment; it had been an unconventional meeting, and is always an amusing tale to tell. He roars with laughter at the shoe incident; one thing he does know about me is my love of footwear, and at school he frequently teases me about the number of pairs I must own.

  ‘Oh Grace,’ he laughs, wiping genuine tears of laughter from his eyes, ‘that really is a corker of a story. It sounds like something from one of those sex and shopping novels – 'She tripped and fell into his arms, realising too late that it was his foot she had stepped on. As she gazed into his pain-stricken face, his eyes were like deep-brown pools, and she knew they would be together forever. It was love at first sight'. You could call it Head Over Heels or something like that.’ Tom reels all this off with one hand on his heart and a theatrical flourish, and this time it’s my turn to roar with laughter.