by Anna Premoli
“I know, really I do. Don’t worry.” We say a brisk goodbye and then I collapse on the bed.
“It could be worse!” shouts Vera, from the other part of the flat.
“You think so?” I say, grabbing a pillow to cover my face. What an awful weekend…
*
Ian rings the doorbell at half past nine exactly. I buzz open the main door and wait patiently. I'm not really happy to see him, but at least I'm prepared mentally.
I've put on an old pair of jeans and a white sweater. A plain, unpretentious look.
I open the door and I’m face to face with him again. Black jeans, black leather jacket, electric blue sweater: this man loves to draw attention to his eyes, I reflect frowning.
“Hello,” he says, on entering.
“Hello,” I say unenthusiastically. I really would have preferred to spend a quiet evening in alone.
“You okay?” he asks. I don’t say anything but the look on my face says it all.
“What do you think?”
I take him to the living room, seeing as Vera and Laura disappeared as soon as they heard him coming.
“Have you recovered from that memorable lunch?” I ask with a nervous laugh. He sits in the armchair.
“I don’t let things like that get to me. Although I must admit, you really do have a strange family.”
“You can say that again,” I say and gesture to the sofa. “You wanted to talk to me?” I don’t want to drag this out more than necessary. My plan is to have him out of here in ten minutes at the outside.
“Yes, I wanted to talk about Friday night,” he says, becoming serious.
“I've already told you what I think.”
“Yes, you did say a few confused things,” he says. Confused?
“I probably didn’t explain myself very well but the concept remains the same: We made a big mistake for reasons that frankly I'd rather not go into. And I'd really like to just forget all about it—”
Ian looks at me with decision. “And I would love to analyse those reasons.”
I’ve learned to recognize that decisive and determined look.
I sigh. “If we must want—” I say reluctantly.
“We're attracted to each other. It's not just a physical thing,” he says, trying to convince me, challenging me to contradict him. “And on my part, this attraction has always been there,” he reveals.
He’s just dropped a bombshell. And he even has the nerve to sit there with an impassive look on his face.
“Ah,” I say, not really knowing what he expects from me.
“And what about you?” he asks.
I ponder for a moment. “No, not for me,” I say sincerely, “but really I’ve never given it much thought.”
“Yes, you are good at ignoring the obvious,” he scolds.
“Is there a point to this conversation?” I ask him. I'm a bit irritated because I’m embarrassed by his confession and I don’t like it.
“It's supposed to be our 'moment of truth' – the first in the seven years that I’ve known you,” he says without changing the subject.
“Ian.” My voice should warn him not to go there.
“We could at least give going out with each other a try,” he proposes, sounding almost indifferent. So indifferent that it’s clear to me that he's bluffing.
“That sounds like a bad idea,” I respond, wide-eyed in amazement. Am I wrong or did Ian just say he'd like to go out with me? “Ian, you and I have absolutely nothing in common.” I thought it was obvious, but no, apparently I have to remind him.
“You're wrong. After seeing your family, I'd say that we have plenty in common.”
Unfortunately, a part of me is starting to think that he might have a point.
“You need somebody completely different,” I suggest changing tactics. “I’m not the right one for you.”
Ian snorts. “Can you let me decide who is right for me?”
I close my eyes, trying to contain my anger. “Ok, then – let's say that you're not the right person for me.”
“Why?” he asks. “And don’t give me that crap about class differences, please.”
He sounds annoyed, but I have no intention of letting myself get worked up.
“It's not just a matter of class, though that has got something to do with it and you can’t deny it. It’s everything else: the expectations of your family, the kind of life you lead now and the kind of future you’ll have, the tabloids… everything. I don’t want to end up in a whirlpool, I want a calm, peaceful relationship and I don’t want to feel as though I’m in competition with you. That’s what it would be like with you, because you're so competitive.”
Ian looks almost offended. “You're exactly the same,” he says. Which is true.
“I know! That's why I'm telling you.” I get up from the couch and start to walk around the room. “It’s not like you to make me talk like this,” I say.
Ian glares at me. “You have absolutely no idea what's ‘like me’ or ‘not like me’ so don’t make meaningless assumptions.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask him, exhausted. I'm afraid I’m about to give in.
“To go out with you!” he answers, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
If I think about it, I could almost consider the idea, and that's why I decide it’s much wiser to erase it totally from my mind. “The answer is no. Now have we finished?” I ask, trying to appear much more confident than I actually feel.
Ian gets up from his chair and joins me. “No, we have not finished.” And he kisses me. He does it so unexpectedly, that I don't even manage to push him away.
I don’t want to be kissed, no way, but as soon as his lips have taken possession of mine I no longer have the power to do anything about it. It's like eating something that you know will make you sick to the stomach, but that you just can’t resist.
Ian's lips are so forceful that they manage to convince mine. All I can do is hold him and let myself be carried away by this wave of passion. I just hope I don’t drown.
Several minutes later we come up, panting, for air.
“Where's your room?” Ian asks, now that he's stopped being guided by logic. I don’t know this side of him, I don’t know how to behave with this ‘new’ Ian.
“No way!” I exclaim, trying to break free from his grip.
Ian walks into the hall dragging me with him. “Ok, so that means we’ll just use the first one that's empty.”
Obviously the first room we come to is mine. Even he realises it’s mine because he sees my bag on the chair.
“The right room, apparently,” he says, trying to get his arms around me again.
“Stay away from me!” I shout. “Don’t come anywhere near me.”
He laughs. “Are you afraid of me or of yourself?”
I’m scared of my weakness for him, but I wish it wasn't quite so obvious. “I'm not afraid of anything,” I say. “And now that we’ve finished our little chat, will you please go?” With a very eloquent gesture I point to the door, but he doesn’t even notice. Instead he starts looking around my room, which is rather messy at the moment: the chair is covered with a pile of clothes and the table is scattered with articles that I’ve printed off but not yet read, seeing how the weekend went. After taking in all the details, he sits on the edge of my bed as if nothing had happened.
“What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.
“I’m sitting down. Why don’t you come and sit next to me?” he asks.
“Ian, please,” I whisper, trying not to lose my patience, “if you don’t know what to do this evening, pick a random number from your little black book. I imagine you'll be spoiled for choice.”
The idiot even dares laugh – he's actually enjoying himself. “Is that the problem?” he asks. “The preposterous number of women throwing themselves at my feet?”
“I didn’t say 'preposterous'!” I say, which gives him even more satisfaction.
“But that
is the problem,” he says, moving further onto the bed and inviting me to sit down with him.
The discussion is so pointless that I end up sitting beside him disconsolately. “Why can’t you understand?” I ask him.
He looks at me intently. “It's precisely because I want you to understand that I'm here and I'm insisting so much. And believe me, I'm used to a completely different kind of reception.”
I have no doubt about that.
“That isn't the only problem,” I repeat, taking up my thread again. “There are millions of problems, but first of all, we're just too different to be together. And anyway, all this is just a caprice for you! You're used to them all falling at your feet, and so this has become a challenge! Don’t you dare deny it!” The volume of my voice has risen, so much so that now I'm almost shouting, but luckily I realise and bring it back under control. “Ian, I need a serious person, someone who isn’t seeing other women, who knows the type of family I come from, who shares my feelings about animal rights, who understands me and doesn’t have to make sacrifices to be in my world.”
“So basically you want an exact replica of yourself?” he asks incredulously.
“No, I want someone with the opposite character to me,” I explain.
“Ok, but while you’re looking for this perfect boyfriend can’t you go out with me in the meantime?” he asks, as if it were that simple.
“Are you out of your mind?” I ask.
“It'd be perfect. Nothing too heavy, we can see each other only when we want to and in the meantime you can carry on looking for your perfect future husband.”
“I don’t want to get married,” I mutter quietly, folding my arms.
“Well, to live together then—” he adds, without wavering.
He must have a screw loose, I decide. “You don’t want to see me, you just want to sleep with me,” I accuse him.
“Is that a crime?” he asks, raising his arms. “But I want to see you too. You're fun, when you want to be. And you’re definitely different from the kind of women that I usually go out with.” Well, that’s not hard to believe. “And if you didn't want to sleep with me at the end of the evening, I wouldn’t be offended.”
“I'm not very good at that kind of casual relationship,” I say sincerely. “I like normal, simple relationships.”
“Yes, but look how those relationships end up—” he says. And he’s right.
“Maybe if you change criteria, you'll pick a better man next time,” he continues.
“Maybe,” I say.
He must think that I’ve given in to him, because a second later he grabs me and pulls me down onto the bed. I'm a prisoner.
“What are you doing?” I ask, blushing.
“What I wanted to do yesterday morning,” he says, and starts kissing me. I melt.
I might be a determined sort of girl usually, but for some strange reason I just don't have the willpower left to push him away.
Chapter 25
It's been a fortnight now since the famous night when Ian left my flat at two in the morning. And they've been a pretty special couple of weeks, I think, sitting in my office on a boring Monday morning. Clearly, I made a terrible mistake by accepting this kind of informal relationship, because in reality I'll never find a boyfriend if I carry on like this.
Generally I try not to think about it too much, but if only I dared to I would realise that Ian and I are spending too much time together. It's not good, because I really like him, although I hate to admit it.
In the office we continue to ignore each other, but once outside we’re inseparable: cocktails, dinner, then after at my place or his. For the first time, this weekend Ian refused to go home to sleep at his flat. He simply turned over and went to sleep in my bed, as if it were perfectly natural.
Vera and Laura also kindly served us breakfast, completely ignoring the fact that I was fuming.
I'd hoped that I'd made it clear: no spending the night together and no spending all our free time together, but in reality the opposite has happened. Ian is invading my space, and I don’t know how to stop it.
And since the little lord refuses to talk about these things and continues to ignore the risks we're running, I can only try to act alone.
I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that I don’t even notice George at the door.
“You all right, boss?” he asks, trying to attract my attention.
“No, not really” I tell him. “But you look great, I see.” I am pleased to see that he’s looking extremely relaxed and happy. I wish I was.
“Great weekend,” he reveals, winking. “Tamara and I went out to dinner.”
“I'm really happy for you,” I say sincerely. At least someone knows what they want.
“Your weekend not so good?” he asks, sitting down in front of me.
“Mine was too good. Oh, ignore me. I'm in a bad mood.” I realise that I must sound completely irrational. If you think I'm crazy, at least have the decency not to show it.
“So you didn’t have a fight with Ian,” he says, as if it were nothing.
“What’s Ian got to do with it?” I ask, alarmed. “Don’t worry,” he says, “nobody knows anything.”
“Because there is nothing to know,” I say firmly.
“If you say so. But if you want to talk to someone about it—”
He's obviously not going to let it drop, so maybe it'd be better to be honest. “What do you think you know?” I ask, slightly anxiously.
“Nothing. Except that you're going out together,” he says, as though there were nothing wrong with that.
“We're not going out together!” I exclaim, startled.
George looks at me in a puzzled way.
“We see each other once in a while,” I explain. Put like that, it sounds more acceptable.
“Once in a while?” he smiles.
“Ok we’re seeing each other! But we're not going out! Absolutely no way! It’s just a temporary relationship. It's not really a relationship at all, to be honest.”
George looks at me. “I see you’re trying your best to resist.”
“Resist what?” I ask, not knowing what to think.
“Ian. You don’t want to fall in love with him.” His tone is casual, but his comment isn’t.
“I’m not trying to resist anyone. That’s ridiculous!” I say, flushing.
He shrugs. “Maybe,” he admits, “but I’ve seen things. Personally I’ve always thought that your quarrels were the result of a repressed mutual attraction.” I stare at him, not knowing what to say.
“And I’d say that it's not repressed any more,” he says, trying to make me smile.
“And now that we've expressed them, why don’t we lock them away in the attic?”
“Why? Don’t you like being with him?” he asks.
I shake my head. “You see, you don’t understand. I like being with him too much.”
“And what's wrong with that?” he asks, confused. There's no hope, men will never understand the female sex.
“A girl can’t relax with someone like Ian, because Ian needs to see a different woman every night.”
“Is he seeing someone else?” he asks without blinking.
“I don’t think so, but what's—”
He interrupts me, almost with disdain. “Don’t ask me what that's got to do with it, please.”
“Ok, I won’t.” I smile nervously. “I'll just say that he needs to be unconditionally adored, and I'm not cut out for that.”
“From what I can see, he's actually enjoyed being brought back down to earth by you rather a lot,” says George, with an allusive expression.
“George, I'm begging you to stop this,” I tell him abruptly.
He seems satisfied. “Come on, don’t take on so. You’ve both been so hard-nosed in recent years, and now that I see a few signs of you finally letting yourself relax a bit, I’m beginning to enjoy myself,” he tells me, not looking in the least bit guilty.
“What signs of l
etting myself relax?” I ask in surprise.
“Just little things, but don’t panic. I’ve noticed that recently, he looks at you differently when you meet in the corridor. You two often exchange secret little looks. And you know what they say, actions speak louder than words—”
His tone is partly ironic, but to some extent what he’s telling me is true, I realise sadly.
“Thank you, George, I appreciate your sincerity,” I admit, the tone of my voice making it clear that I consider the matter closed.
And in fact, he understands immediately. “Ok, I’m off. If you need me you know where to find me.”
*
A few hours later I'm still reflecting on George’s words. I'm brought back to earth by an e-mail from Ian, whose image on the screen makes me jump. This man is not only invading my life, but also my mind and my computer!
“Lunch?” it says. No way!
“I'm busy. Sorry,” I write and click 'send'. I'm not, but I’m not going to lunch with him, because what George said is true: I'm falling head over heels in love with him, and losing my head for the person I’m least suited to in all the world, and I'm heading for the biggest fall of my life if I keep going down this road. I’ve already put up with enough from far less attractive people. There’s absolutely no need to go through it all again with him.
I must do something, anything. But what?
After wracking my brains for what seems like ages, I suddenly have a brilliant idea. I grab the phone and call my sister Stacey, who answers after several rings, sounding quite surprised.
“Hello Jenny,” she says, “to what do I owe the honour?”
Things have been tense between us since that famous kiss, and we haven’t really spoken about it at all. But I've noticed all of her digs anyway, not to mention the hypercritical schoolma’am looks that she loves giving me.
“I was thinking about your offer to introduce me to that friend of Tom’s.”
“Who, Eliott?” she asks, trying to hide the hint of joy in her voice.
“Yes, why not?” I ask, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“So things with Ian didn’t work out, then—” she mutters reproachfully.
“Stacey, there’s never been anything between me and Ian.”