Love to Hate You

by Anna Premoli

  There's a bump behind us. Probably Colin’s secretary passing out.

  “I don’t think that's a good idea,” I answer sharply. I can see our colleagues' ears bending towards us, and not just metaphorically.

  “We could talk about it here, but in that case the whole of London would find out,” Ian insists. He leans towards me and whispers persuasively in my ear, “What's the matter, Percy – chicken?”

  What a bastard. He knows very well I can’t resist a challenge.

  I think for a moment. What’s worse? Giving the office vipers something else to gossip about behind my back or meeting His Lordship somewhere else?

  “I might take your proposal into consideration, but nowhere posh this time,” I say, determinedly. He seems to agree.

  “Of course, you choose the place. Somewhere anonymous, the type of place you'd know.” It doesn't occur to him that what he's saying might be offensive, why would it?

  “Ok, I know a pub that would be absolutely perfect,” I say, after thinking carefully, and I tell him the address. I must admit, he doesn’t protest at all when I tell him the pub is out in Peckham – not exactly his usual stomping ground.

  “Ok,” he says with a shrug. “I'll be there at eight.”

  He walks off back to his office, and all the curious heads turn in his direction.

  *

  I’m sitting at the bar nursing a whisky and trying to relax. I know that I'll need all the help I can get tonight.

  I’m tired and stressed, and to be honest, Ian's the last person I want to see right now. The absolute last. I think I'd rather go out with my mum, which ought to give you a clue about how I'm feeling. Paul the bartender is keeping me entertained with his usual racy stories, having noticed my gloomy mood.

  “What's with the long face, anyway?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.

  Paul knows Vera, Laura and me quite well. We only live round the corner and we often come here. It’s a dark, anonymous place, not a hipster in sight – the perfect place to relax. Perfect for the three of us, anyway.

  “Stress, stress and more stress,” I answer resignedly, while I observe my already half empty glass.

  “In that case, you need a top up,” he says, filling it. Do I really look that desperate?

  “Cheers.” I lift my glass as though drinking a toast to him and swallow another drop of the amber liquid.

  “Are the girls coming later?” he asks, trying to make the question sound casual.

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  Paul's always had a crush on Vera, but he's never quite got the nerve to ask her out. “I’m meeting a colleague tonight. It’s sort of a work thing,” I explain, trying to justify the absence of his inamorata.

  Paul looks at me as though he knows something I don't.

  “Well, love – if your 'date' is the bloke who's just come through the door, I don’t really know what you're looking so miserable about.”

  I turn towards the door and see Ian coming in. He’s looking around for me, but the dim lighting makes me hard to spot.

  “That's him,” I confirm, sighing in resignation. I was hoping he'd get lost on the way, but no such luck.

  “Flipping heck, Jenny—” says Paul, without even finishing his sentence. Both of us know what he’s thinking.

  “Yeah—” I say. I understand why he’s astonished – anybody would be. Ian's wearing his usual work suit, without tie, and is carrying a coat that probably cost about five months' of a normal London bartender's salary. And it’s evident.

  Good job he didn’t want to be noticed, I think in annoyance.

  Finally, he sees me, gives me a wave and walks over.

  “Good evening, Jenny,” he says. He looks a bit stiff, not really at home in these surroundings.

  “Is there anything good at all about this evening?” I answer, not caring if I sound rude.

  “Shall we get a table?” he suggests, giving Paul a glance. It’s obvious he doesn’t want an audience.

  “If we must,” I answer, getting up from my stool, glass in hand. Ian quickly orders a pint of ale and follows me over.

  “Listen, let's not beat about the bush. I’m exhausted and I’d like to get home as soon as possible. If you don’t mind, let’s get straight to the point,” I say.

  “Of course, sure,” he says, seemingly in agreement, “but there's just one thing I have to ask you first: am I ok parking the car round here?”

  I look at him worriedly. “Why? What kind of car did you come in?” I ask.

  “The Porsche,” he answers, sheepishly.

  “Oh, Ian!” I snap, banging my hand on the table. “That was bloody stupid of you!”

  I can see he’s irritated. “And what car should I have come in, then? My grandfather’s Bentley? I've got a Porsche and I use it!” he says angrily. Never touch a man’s car, a lesson we all learn at a very young age.

  “Ever heard of public transport, Your Highness? The tube? Have you ever even used it once?”

  “Of course I have! I just wasn't sure that I'd manage to find this god-forsaken place without a car and a navigator, you bloody smartarse!” he defends himself.

  “Well, I'm sorry it's so far from Regent’s Park—”

  The usual antagonism between us rears its head for a moment, and then the silence seems endless.

  “Ok, this is beside the point,” Ian says eventually, running his hand through his black hair.

  “As usual. And as this is bound to go on all night, I think I’ll get something to eat,” I say stoically, and I gesture to Paul, who sees me and nods.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to eat here?” Ian asks, looking around the place.

  “It's perfectly safe. I’ll eat, you talk. So, you were saying—” I press him to continue.

  “Actually, I'm a bit peckish myself,” he interrupts me, saying it as though he were talking about deciding to try sword swallowing or something equally daring.

  I bang my fist on the table again with a moan. “God, is this nightmare ever going to end?”

  I turn towards Paul and make another gesture, this time towards the person sitting in front of me. Our bartender sniggers and nods.

  We'll see who's laughing when you ask Vera out, I think vindictively.

  “Ok, problem solved. Now, can we talk about why we’re here?”

  I'm speaking too loudly, but it doesn’t matter. I’m annoyed, if that wasn’t clear enough already.

  “We’re here because you refuse to be seen anywhere 'posh' with me,” he answers, like the lousy know-all little nobleman he is, while fluttering his long eyelashes like some kind of celebrity.

  I swear I’ll kill him if he doesn’t give it a rest.

  “God, give me strength,” I mutter, exhausted.

  Ian looks amused. I’m playing right into his hands.

  “Ok, back to the business at hand,” I repeat, nervously pushing my hair out of my eyes.

  “Right, well it’s about the article—” Ian starts.

  “Oh, no! Not that article again!” I stop him, banging my hand yet again on the table in exasperation. The few other patrons of the pub look round in surprise.

  “Look, how can I tell you what it’s about if you keep interrupting me?” he asks, knowing he's got a point. I realise that we've reached another standstill, when Paul arrives with our dinner. “Here you go,” he says, giving me my usual plate of grilled vegetables and placing a plate of steak and chips in front of Ian, who tries one immediately and nods in satisfaction. One look is enough to understand he’s a carnivore – one of those who likes his steaks rare. It was easy enough for Paul to guess his tastes.

  “Very nice,” he mutters, while chewing, failing to hide his surprise.

  “I’m glad your aristocratic palate approves of our humble repast.”

  “It certainly does, though I’m not sure how I'll survive without silver cutlery,” he teases. I decide to ignore his lame provocation for once and pretend I haven't heard. This evening has already gone on far too long
, better not to make things any worse.

  “Anyway, at the risk of sounding repetitive, could we please get back to the reason why we’re here tonight? I mean, apart from the fantastic company—”

  Ian looks at me with a laugh. “We could, but it'd be a shame – I was really enjoying this.”

  I stare at him in astonishment. “Ian, get a life! I understand that high society is boring, but I have better things to do than entertain you in my spare time. They don’t pay me enough to put up with you outside office hours,” I say.

  He gives me a very ambiguous look, the meaning of which is a complete mystery to me.

  “Ok, let’s get back to the point. I have to admit that article made me realise something interesting: getting photographed with a normal girl meant that a lot of the others stopped hassling me… Apparently, showing up with the usual looker doesn't work any more, but turn up with someone a bit less obviously attractive, on the contrary… brilliant! They all think that if I'm going out with you, it must be something serious.”

  This is how he explains his twisted thought process.

  My fork hangs in the air, and the piece of grilled pepper hanging off the end falls back down onto my plate. If I've got any oil on me, I swear I'll decapitate him.

  “Pardon?” I ask, hoping that I've misunderstood.

  But Ian is in the mood for pointless conversation. “It’s been unbearable, recently. There's a whole gang of girls literally harassing me—” he continues relentlessly, not noticing my expression. And for the record, I think my facial expressions are usually fairly eloquent.

  “Poor thing, being so irresistible—” I mutter, nauseated.

  “Exactly – it’s not my fault, obviously. It’s all because of this ‘title’ nonsense,” he concludes.

  I don't think it is just because of this 'title nonsense', though. When was the last time he looked at himself in a mirror? Of course, I'd never say anything like that to him, or at least, not until aliens have landed on earth and taught us all how to live together in harmony and brotherhood, but it’s a fact: he is objectively terribly, annoyingly good looking.

  “So?” I ask, regretting it almost instantly.

  “So you'd be perfect!” he exclaims enthusiastically. For a moment I'd actually hoped for a different conclusion.

  I must have misunderstood. He can’t really be asking what I think he's asking. “Ian, are you on some kind of weird medication?” I ask very seriously. There’s no other explanation. That or a temporary memory loss. Does he even realise who he is asking to pretend she’s his girlfriend? He laughs as he tucks in to his ketchup covered chips, and the sight is upsetting, to say the least.

  “The only weird thing in my system is the bloody smog in Peckham,” he answers, “which I’m sure isn't particularly healthy, but I doubt it affects your mental abilities. And anyway, why? Does my idea sound so absurd to you?”

  Is this supposed to be a joke? Ok, I’m definitely not hungry any more.

  I put my fork down and look at him very seriously. “Then please run it by me again, because I’m sure you would never – and I repeat, never – ask me what I think you're asking.”

  The rogue smiles at me so innocently that I almost buy it. Almost. I'm not that ingenuous.

  “As hard as it is to admit it, you’re the only woman I know who could pretend to be in a relationship with me without really wanting to be. And anyway, they've already photographed us together—”

  I pick up the glass in front of me and take a gulp of whisky.

  “What?” is the only thing I can say, and I’m glad that the alcohol has got me slightly tipsy.

  “Yes – and you’re not the usual stunner, which would make the plan even more ingenious.”

  I’m starting to get really annoyed.

  “Ok, maybe I shouldn’t have said that last part, right?” he asks, as soon as he sees my face.

  “Probably not—” I confirm through gritted teeth.

  “But it would be perfect!” he repeats, ignoring what we've just said.

  Right, this joke has gone on too long, and it's going too far.

  “And what would I get out of this little farce?” I ask, trying very hard to stay calm. “And anyway, everybody who knows me knows that I have much better taste—”

  It's a complete lie, but it sounds so good I can't help saying it. Ian’s expression is resigned for a moment, but then goes back to neutral. His discomfort lasted maybe five seconds, but I treasured it.

  “Think about it, Jenny – you'd be seen with the most desirable bachelor in town. That alone would raise your market value quite a bit—”

  Like I need my 'market value' raising.

  “I’m certain that I can make myself pleasant enough even for your parents and friends. I know how to make people like me, when I want to,” he goes on, blabbering like an idiot.

  I stop him with a murderous look.

  “I consider you an intelligent person,” I say in a firm tone, trying not to suffer too much from having given him a half compliment, “so, enlighten me – did you really think I would help you? That. I. Would. Help. You?”

  I repeat the question very slowly, in an astonished tone, as though I were talking to a child.

  “Why not?” he has the cheek to ask, as though it were normal.

  “Ian, don’t provoke me!” I threaten, hoping that I won't have to give any further explanation. The way this is going, I might not be able to account for my own actions.

  I mean, after being a thorn in my side for years he shows up and he actually expects me to help him? And to show up in public with him?

  “What have you got to lose?” he insists, trying another strategy. But he’s out of luck, because I already know all his tricks. I’ve got a Master’s in the subject.

  “My reputation, my self-esteem, my dignity… shall I go on? Because I could go on, you know? For hours.” I answer promptly.

  “You want to play hard,” he says, after pondering for a few moments.

  I lean towards him and look in his eyes. “That's where you’re wrong, Ian, I’m not playing at all, even though I get the feeling you might be.”

  We study each other for some time. Neither of us wants to look away first, because that would mean losing. The same old boring story.

  “Ok, so what do you want?” he asks out of the blue. He must have given up the attempt to bewitch me with his big blue eyes. That’s unfortunate for him: a bit more staring and I might have given in. I am only human, after all!

  “I want you out of my life. Can I have that?” I suggest.

  He lifts his eyes to the heavens, irritated by my lack of co-operation.

  “I meant something realistic. And I'd be grateful if you could avoid being sarcastic all the time.”

  “Me? Sarcastic? You must be mixing me up with someone else,” I say, pretending not to understand what he means.

  “Oh, give it a rest and stop changing the subject – what do you want in exchange for this little favour?” he insists.

  Little – right. Very little.

  “If you think there's any chance I'd accept a proposal like that you must be out of your mind,” I say, loud and clear. He doesn’t seem to care about what I've just said, though.

  “I’m committed and ready to negotiate. I’m sure we can agree on a compromise that satisfies both parties.”

  “I doubt it—”

  “Come on, think. There must be something you really want. Something like, I don't know, carte blanche for the job we’re working on. I could make things much more difficult, if I had to—” he says, threateningly.

  “Let’s get something clear: I don’t want you around. Beverly's my client and I want to deal with his estate my way. Your presence is necessary because of the… the extenuating circumstances. But let’s leave it at that. I’m not interested in your opinions or suggestions, and most of all I don’t want to discuss them with you,” I say in one breath. The words just tumble out of my mouth, and I don't seem to be able
to stop them.

  “See? There is something you want. You want to be able work without me interfering. And I'd be happy to let you do that in exchange for a trifling little bit of help from you.”

  I keep quiet. Whatever I might say would only backfire on me.

  Ian watches me carefully and ponders for a long time, before speaking again.

  “Look, I know we've had our differences in the past, but I did think that what they say about you was true.” His usual glib tone has vanished for a moment and he sounds serious.

  “And what do they say?”

  “That you’re actually a nice person who likes helping other people.”

  “I heard that 'actually', loud and clear,” I say, not knowing what other pretext to use. Because there’s an annoying part of me which inexplicably wants me to accept. I don’t even want to start asking why.

  “Yes, but I also said nice. And I was talking about you. Please notice the good will in my words.”

  I lift my eyes to look at him and notice he’s giving me one of those smiles he uses to make people succumb. I’ve seen it so many times, but always directed at someone else.

  Being the target of it is like being punched in the stomach.

  “Please—” he says, persuasively, lowering his voice.

  I blink in astonishment, trying to shake off the heat I can feel building up around me. I need to cut this short, whatever the cost.

  “Ok,” I hear myself saying, almost against my own will.

  Ok? Did I really just say Ok?? Am I going insane? I start panicking and struggle to breathe.

  Ian perks up instantly and, a satisfied expression on his face, grabs hold of my hand. “I assure you, I will be very, very grateful!” he says, sticking the last knife in.

  “Enough, please, enough!” I shriek, pulling my hand away from his. A drastic but efficient gesture.

  “So is that a definite yes?” he asks solemnly. As though he really needed to hear me saying it again.

  “Do I have a choice?” I ask, with all the enthusiasm of a condemned woman walking towards the gallows.

  “Of course not!” he exclaims, satisfied. “You know all too well I wouldn’t give up. I could have gone on forever.”