‘What, again? You must have seen him at least ten times.’
‘No, seven.’
‘Seven’s still a hell of a lot in less than a month. You’re obviously besotted!’
‘Don’t be daft. Of course I’m not.’
‘What’s the attraction, then?
‘He’s … different. Good-mannered and attentive and sort of gentlemanly. I admit that makes him seem a bit old before his time, but—’
‘How old is he?’
‘Well, older than me, but only eight years or so. He’ll be thirty in August.’
‘And never been married, you say?’
‘No. I suspect he’s wedded to his job, and rather obsessional in general – obsessed with numbers, no question. He and I have very different ways of looking at the world. I tend to see things in terms of image – how they strike the eye – whereas he’s hung up on algorithms and mathematical formulae and all that kind of stuff.’
‘He sounds a total egghead.’
‘No, he doesn’t even have a degree. And, although I assume he’s brilliant with numbers, he also has a side that, frankly, seems irrational. For instance, he pointed out that we met on the fifth of June, at seven o’clock, which gives a sequence of 5/6/7. To me, that’s just coincidence and neither here nor there but, as far as he’s concerned, it makes our meeting significant, in the sense of “meant to be”.’
‘That’s seriously weird.’
‘Maybe it’s just connected with his work.’ She willed Emma to return to her desk. Fortunately, Graham, their boss, was busy on the phone, but he was doubtless aware, at some level, that the two of them were ‘time-wasting’ and thus might start his usual spiel about how, with only four staff, it was vital they all pulled their weight. ‘I mean, if you’re analysing data all the time, perhaps you’re conscious of symmetries and suchlike that ordinary people don’t see.’
‘What I can’t understand is how he does that sort of high-powered work without a degree.’
‘I’m not sure it is high-powered.’
‘Well, if he works in the field of Big Data, it’s said to be one of the sexiest jobs going, not to mention very highly paid. And since he lives in a snazzy Clerkenwell pad… .’
Lynne’s attention was still snared on the word ‘sexiest’. Although sex with Andrew was good, something vital seemed to be missing – something she couldn’t quite define, except he appeared to find it difficult to act with genuine spontaneity. On each of the four occasions, he had followed the exact same, set-in-stone routine: first three minutes’ kissing, then three minutes’ fondling her body, followed by three minutes’ tonguing her breasts, and so on and so on, as if allotted by a stop-watch. Nothing wrong with his technique; she just wondered if, at some point, he might free up a little and dispense with such a methodical pattern, or initiate a different position from his usual man-on-top. It was probably up to her to suggest some variations, yet he was so wedded to his own meticulous method, she feared that might upset him.
Emma was still leaning against her desk, now swigging from a bottle of Perrier. ‘Maybe he just calls himself a data analyst,’ she said, pursuing the conversation: a terrier with a bone, ‘you know, like we call ourselves “publishers”, while struggling to turn out a very low-key, indie mag, with a tiny list of subscribers.’
‘We’re still publishers,’ Lynne countered defensively, glancing round with affection at the untidy, cluttered office, with its piles of back issues heaped up on the floor, and the collage on the wall, created from their most striking magazine-covers.
‘Except,’ she added, ‘we won’t be, if we don’t get back to work!’
‘Well, I’m only hanging about because I’m waiting for your layouts.’
‘Just give me ten more minutes, OK?’
‘OK, but don’t waste any more time mooning over your so-called data analyst.’
‘I love you!’ Andrew shouted, collapsing down on top of her.
She was too out of breath to speak – as well as too surprised, since he had never mentioned love before. However, most men, in her experience, conflated lust with love, so he was probably just on a sexual high, on account of the fact they’d both come at the exact same gratifying moment, which hadn’t happened before. Indeed, up till now, she had found his insistence on remaining in control, even in the sex-act, strangely disconcerting, as if part of him was holding back, dictating the proceedings from some detached, dispassionate cyber-brain.
‘That was quite fantastic, darling.’
She noted the ‘darling’ – another first.
Then, instead of slumping down in his usual semi-doze, he sat up in bed and took both her hands in his, speaking solemnly and slowly. ‘Lynne, this may be a bit premature, but I’ve been thinking very seriously and I want us to get married.’
Dumbstruck, she could only stare.
‘We hit it off so well – not just in bed, in every way, and that’s incredibly rare. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been looking for a woman with your particular qualities and, now I’ve found you, I just can’t let you go. I want you to share my life, share my flat, share everything.’
Again, she struggled for words. They had known each other barely four weeks and she was ignorant of whole areas of his life, including his family background. In any case, she had ambitions, one of which was to edit a proper, prestigious magazine before the age of thirty. Marriage – and, more so, children – would stymie such a goal. Yet she had to admit it was flattering to receive a marriage proposal, and surely proof she was desirable, which her previous men-friends had frequently led her to doubt. And whatever her suspicions about Andrew’s mention of love, this particular matter clearly wasn’t prompted by lust. He would never take such an important step on a mere impulsive whim and, anyway, hadn’t he just told her he had thought seriously about the issue? Besides, she couldn’t help being tempted by his offer of sharing everything. His pay was at least quadruple hers and this spacious Clerkenwell flat, with its ultra-stylish furnishings and solid oak-wood flooring, was far superior to her own dingy little bedsit.
She wasn’t a gold-digger – the concept was abhorrent – yet, as the child of a single parent, she had always been insecure; moving with her feckless mother from one grotty set of lodgings to another, and invariably short of money for trainers, school-trips, or the latest trendy gadgets all her classmates flashed around. But that was way back in the past, and she mustn’t let it influence any decision at this moment. Nor should money come into it. What mattered wasn’t Andrew’s income or enviable lifestyle, but his reassuring steadiness, generous nature and complete reliability.
‘Darling, you’re very quiet. I hope this hasn’t been a shock for you.’
‘Well, yes, a bit, to be honest. I mean, it all seems so…sudden.’
‘Lynne, I’m sure you know by now that I never act precipitately. And I’m savvy enough about relationships to realize ours is special, without needing months to prove it. But the last thing I want is to pressure you, so why don’t we leave the question open for a couple of weeks, at least. That’ll give you time to think it over and maybe discuss it with your mother.’
No, she thought, instinctively. Her mother had never quite forgiven her for leaving home, regarding it as ‘abandonment’. And, since she was always supremely critical, Andrew would fail to win her approval, even with all his sterling qualities.
‘Let’s relax, darling, and not worry about a thing.’ He lay back against the pillows, coaxed her down beside him and began gently stroking her hair. And, all at once, she was flooded with an intense – and rare – contentment. She had already decided to turn down his proposal – with the greatest possible tact, of course – but it still made her feel diamond-bright to be cherished and desired.
‘So what d’you think?’ Lynne reclined back on the trendy, white-leather sofa, next to her fiancé – the word gave her a definite thrill. ‘A spring wedding? Maybe Easter week?’
Slowly, he shook his head. ‘I’m afra
id we don’t have much choice of date.’
‘What do you mean? Why ever not?’
‘Well, it has to be this year. In fact, it has to be December the eleventh, at two-fifteen. You see, that particular date and time gives the sequence of numbers: 11/12/13/14/15. And a similar sequence of five won’t happen again for another ninety years.’
Could she have heard right? To determine the date of a wedding on such insubstantial grounds seemed totally preposterous. Besides, December was far too soon to get everything arranged in time.
‘Numbers have huge importance, Lynne. Many people fail to grasp exactly what they signify, but that doesn’t mean—’
‘Look here,’ she interrupted, caring nothing for numbers, except to fix a more convenient date. ‘December the eleventh’s only four-and-a-half months off, and it’s a hopeless month for weddings, anyway, with all the Christmas hype and everyone desperately busy. And people tend to go away then, so some of my friends will have to miss my Big Day. And the weather’s bloody awful and it’s the cold-and-flu season, don’t forget. But what I really object to is the pressure. My friend Vanessa needed more than a year to plan her wedding, and that’s normal, I assure you. You may not realize, Andrew, but there’s a huge amount to do – the church to book, as well as a venue for the reception, and my dress and shoes and veil to buy, and loads of decisions about photographers and caterers and florists and what-have-you, and the cake to order, and the wedding cars and invitations, and a budget to be set… .’
‘Don’t worry about the budget, darling. If you want to splash out a bit, that’s fine by me. And, as far as the planning is concerned, just give me a list of the things that need to be done, and I’ll make sure we get them all ticked off in well under four-and-a-half months. That’s my forte, Lynne – organization, efficiency, cutting out unnecessary steps or duplicated efforts, and keeping completely focused on each part of the schedule in turn.’
Unable to contain her agitation, she jumped up from the sofa and began pacing round the room. ‘Andrew, you may be super-efficient, but there are some things you just can’t do – choose my wedding dress, for instance, or sort out my bridesmaids and their dresses. Or draw up a guest-list for me, when you hardly know any of my friends. And you certainly can’t take my mother shopping for her outfit, or—’
‘Agreed,’ he said, serene, as always – maddeningly so, in this context, ‘but I can do most of the rest. And when it comes to venues for the reception, and photographers and caterers and suchlike, I’ll use spreadsheets and a database, and make proper price comparisons and rate every place or service-provider according to a graded system. Then we can see at a glance all the pros and cons of each, and also—’
‘OK,’ she interrupted. ‘It all sounds fantastically efficient, but I still can’t understand why a particular sequence of numbers has to overrule everything else.’
‘Because numbers must take precedence in certain situations, Lynne, on account of their implications and their power. Take my birthday – the twenty-eighth of June. June is the sixth month, and six and twenty-eight are both perfect numbers.’
‘How can any number be perfect?’ she retorted. ‘Surely a number is a number.’
‘No, that’s far too simplistic. Perfect numbers are made up the sum of their smaller divisors – for example, six is divisible by one, two and three and, if you add up one, two and three, you get six. And twenty-eight is divisible by one, two, four, seven and fourteen, and the sum of those divisors is also twenty-eight. So, perfect numbers are, by their very nature, extremely rare. The next one after twenty-eight is four hundred and ninety-six.’
Why, she wondered, irritably, were they engaging in such abstruse discussion, when they should be fixing a wedding-date? In any case, his talk of sums and divisors had left her floundering.
‘The concept,’ he added, with obvious satisfaction, ‘is almost unbelievable, yet profoundly seductive.’
Unbelievable, yes, she thought, her high heels tapping out her annoyance on the echoing wood floor, but seductive, not at all. Yet, although she tried to moderate her anger, she produced only a fractious splutter.
‘Lynne, I hate to see you so upset.’ He, too, got up and took her in his arms, to stop her frantic pacing. ‘You’re probably feeling hassled, even bullied, but I want you to trust me, darling, in knowing that the December date will work out perfectly well.’
‘But it’s hard to trust you when I’m not on the same wavelength. I mean, all this stuff you find so infinitely fascinating just doesn’t strike a chord with me.’
‘I grant you it’s not easy to explain – or not without going into esoteric realms, rather like trying to explain religion to a non-believer.’
‘So it’s just a superstitious thing, you mean?’
‘No, absolutely not! It involves crucial concepts, such as harmony and order, correlation, synchronization… . Actually, I learned some of it from my father, who even insisted on naming us children according to a system. I’m Andrew Brian Clifford David Edwards, which gives the sequence of letters: A/B/C/D/E. And my sister’s Alice Barbara Catherine Deidre… .’
She was torn between laughing in derision, and running a mile. Suppose this obsession with numbers was some sort of genetic disorder that could be passed on from Andrew and his father to her own kids?
‘But,’ he said, gently massaging her forehead, to smooth away her frown, ‘it would take hours to explore that whole complicated field and, right now, I simply need to persuade you that, if we stick to this once-in-a-lifetime formula of 11/12/13/14/15, our marriage will be blessed.’
She felt herself go limp in his arms, as if her uncertainty and bewilderment had sapped her physical strength. Yet she was aware of him supporting her in a strangely reassuring way and, although nowhere near convinced about his choice of wedding-date, his own complete conviction was somehow suppressing her doubts. Besides, other, perfectly rational things could also sound peculiar, if not downright crazy – modern physics, for example, or what she could grasp of it from the latest TV series. And, since she was as ignorant about all matters mathematical as she was about quantum physics, who was she to judge such numerical unorthodoxies? If she could ensure a happy marriage by any means, however esoteric, shouldn’t she jump at the chance? Her parents had divorced when she was six, and she had never forgotten their blistering rows – each of them using her as a pawn – and then the terrible day her father marched out, leaving her mother bitter and resentful for the remainder of her life. Andrew would never walk out of a marriage, or lose his temper and scream and shout, let alone resort to violence, as both her parents had.
‘Let me get you a drink, darling. You still look a bit shell-shocked!’
She allowed herself to be led back to the sofa. Two cushions were placed behind her back; a glass of wine put into her hand. Andrew was nothing if not caring and considerate.
‘And I’ll rustle up some scrambled eggs, OK?’
‘Lovely, thanks.’ His scrambled eggs were in the gourmet class, rich with smoked salmon, and perfectly poised between runny and overcooked. Meals apart, he had already done so much for her, simply in being a steadying influence, invariably calm and reasonable. So didn’t she owe him something in return – especially on an issue he felt so passionately about?
She hesitated only for a second, before following him into the kitchen. ‘I’ve just made a decision,’ she announced, putting her arms around his waist and pressing close. ‘We will get married at two-fifteen, on December the eleventh.’
‘Mum, it suits you, honestly. And it’s perfect for a winter wedding.’
Her mother grimaced at herself in the full-length fitting-room mirror. ‘I look like a dog’s dinner.’
‘You actually look extremely elegant. And anyway, you must have tried on fifty outfits by now – I mean, counting the last two Saturdays, as well as today – and there can’t be something wrong with all of them. OK, I know you hated the pink creation, and the turquoise suit, and that floral th
ing, and even the gorgeous grey two-piece, but this dress and jacket is definitely the best, I’d say. So why not settle for it, then we can go and have a coffee and rest our feet.’
Her mother shrugged. ‘All right, if you insist.’
‘I’m not insisting, Mum. It has to be your choice. But we can’t spend every Saturday dragging round the shops.’ The cramped, claustrophobic fitting-room seemed to be choking on her mother’s cheap carnation scent.
‘I’ve said I’ll take it, haven’t I? – although it’s wickedly expensive.’
‘Look, I’ve told you over and over, Andrew’s paying.’
‘Why should he?’ her mother snapped.
‘Because he’s generous, Mum. And he happens to have the money, which you don’t.’
‘He’s only being generous because he completely overruled you about the date of the wedding. I reckon he’s feeling guilty now and just trying to make amends.’
‘Oh, Mum, don’t start all that again.’ Lynne sank into the spindly gilt chair wedged between the mirror and the wall. ‘And, anyway, everything’s under control. It’s only mid-October, but we’ve ticked off almost every item on our list. In fact, I can hardly believe how smoothly it’s gone – thanks to Andrew, of course. He’s spared me a huge amount of hassle. Most brides-to-be do all that stuff themselves, yet he’s taken on the bulk of it.’
‘If it was my wedding, I’d rather do it myself.’
‘Well, it’s not your wedding, Mum, OK? And, if you get out of that dress, I’ll go and pay for it.’
‘I still think it’s way too fancy.’
Lynne restricted herself to an irritated sigh. ‘Last week you complained that the grey one was too plain.’
‘It was – a bit like my old school uniform.’
‘Mum,’ she said, firmly, ‘there’s a little café right next to this department. Once you’re ready, just walk a few yards to your right and you’ll come to The Coffee Cup. I’ll see you there in ten minutes, OK?’
‘So have you decided on your hen night yet?’
Lynne sugared her coffee and sat spooning the froth from the top. ‘Yes – all fixed now. Andrew helped me with that, as well. I kept dithering, you see, because the normal hen night sorts of things leave me, frankly, cold. I mean, I’ve no desire to get trashed in some ridiculously expensive club, and I loathe those sleazy male strippers that Vanessa had at her do. In fact, from what I can gather, they’re often mostly gay and simply pretend to be turned on by a bunch of slavering girls. And, as for shelling out for some exotic trip abroad, I just haven’t the cash to take all twelve of us. And a chocolate-making workshop is bound to bring me out in spots, just when I want to look good for my Big Day.’
Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers Page 4