Men I've Loved Before

by Adele Parks

  Men I’ve Loved Before

  Adele Parks

  Copyright © 2010, Adele Parks

  The right of Adele Parks to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For mothers and daughters everywhere.

  Especially my mum Maureen, my Nana Mary

  and my Nana Finn.

  With love.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  1

  Nat picked up her BlackBerry. Its smooth, cool, shininess was instantly soothing; once again she ran through the ‘Birthday To Do List’. It wasn’t that she was a neurotic controlling type, she told herself; it was just that it was important to her that Neil’s birthday was absolutely perfect. Actually, she was a neurotic controlling type but luckily her husband rather liked it in her, he recognised that her organisation skills propped up his tendency towards the chaotic.

  1) Confirm cake has been delivered to restaurant. Check.

  She’d already called the Bluebird restaurant and verified that the moist chocolate cake with lavish marshmallow stack had safely arrived in the kitchen. It had been delivered by a neighbour of her parents who, coincidentally, had been coming into town to se a new exhibition at the Tate Modern and (according to her mother) really didn’t mind making the diversion to drop off the cake. It was true people tended to like doing things for Nina. It had taken some negotiation to convince the restaurant chef to allow Nina’s homemade cake into his inner sanctum in the first place. But Natalie was very persuasive when she needed to be and she considered her husband’s thirty-fifth birthday such an occasion. Neil would not think his birthday complete without a cake baked by his mother-in-law.

  The Bluebird restaurant on the King’s Road in the heart of Chelsea was undeniably stylish, but the obvious sophistication and daring modernity was not at all intimidating because some clever interior designer had chosen warm, rich colours and subtle lighting which created a relaxed and intimate ambiance. Nat had thought it the perfect place for cocktails and dinner with friends. Neil would appreciate the modern British menu; he always had to stop off at the chippie if they ate at a nouvelle cuisine restaurant or at a sushi bar.

  While she’d been on the phone, Nat had also checked that the reservation was for 7.15p.m., not 7.30p.m. She’d once read a tip in a magazine about how to ensure great service in a restaurant and she’d been struck by the suggestion of making a booking for quarter past or quarter to the hour, as the vast majority of the general public arrived at restaurants on the hour or half past. Nat had never bothered to follow the tip before, but tonight she was keen that everything (including service) was heavenly.

  2) Confirm time of reservation. Check.

  Whilst on the phone she’d also changed the reservation for eight people to six. Neil’s brother’s wife, Fi, had called this morning to cancel – again. Babysitting issues – again. Nat was disappointed, for herself and especially for Neil. She knew he’d have loved to have had his big brother there tonight, not least because Ben was always rather good at discreetly mediating between Tim (Neil’s oldest friend) and Karl (Neil’s most fun friend). Despite the fact that Neil, Tim and Karl saw each other socially at least once a week, from what Nat had witnessed over the past seven years, it was clear that, other than a deep and enduring affection for Neil, Neil’s best mates didn’t have that much in common. Neil appeared to be unaware of the slight tension and tussle of their being a threesome, or at least he did a damn good impression of seeming so. He was happiest when everyone just got along.

  After Nat had informed the restaurant about the alteration to the number of guests she was expecting, she’d also made sure that the sommelier’s selection still included Chenas Cuvée Quartz, Piron & Lafontthe. She was quite nervous about her pronunciation of the wine’s name but the last time she and Neil had visited Bluebird (well, the only other time, in fact) he’d commented how much he liked the wine and she’d taken note of it so she could try to track it down in a supermarket.

  3) Confirm availability of Chenas Cuvée Quartz. Check.

  She could almost feel the maître d’ rolling his eyes in exasperation through the telephone. No doubt he thought she was horribly painful and was probably contemplating instructing the kitchen staff to spit in her soup. Nat didn’t care. All she cared about was giving Neil a great night. Nat never got so excited about her own birthdays; actually she preferred to ignore them altogether, that date wasn’t much cause for celebration, but Neil’s birthday was something special. The day Neil came into this world was really important, at least to her. Not that she was given to saying such sloppy things; she preferred to show her feelings through her actions. That’s why she wanted tonight to be wonderful.

  The sun had cooperated, which was a bonus. It had been a hot and hazy day, the warmth still snuggled in the London pavements and brickwork and in the smiles of people who spilled outside pubs, beer bottle and fag in hand. Nat loved the lively sun-induced chatter that erupted between strangers, she loved the brightly coloured clothes that, like butterflies, could only be spotted in London for a fleeting summer moment, and she loved blasts of the smell of suntan lotion on warm skin. Despite Neil’s birthday landing in late August, there was never an absolute guarantee that they’d enjoy sunshine on the day. The likelihood of a British BBQ summer was about parallel to actually spotting a UFO or that of a woman over forty being complimented on her beauty without the compliment being accompanied by the deadening caveat, ‘for her age’. Nat remembered Neil’s thirty-third birthday with horrible clarity. She’d arranged for them to enjoy a gourmet picnic in their local park, Ravenscourt; they’d practically had to use the hamper as a lifeboat because of flash floods. Then there was the year that she’d thought it might be fun to go to Brighton and eat fish and chips on the front. In her mind she’d imagined them wandering, hand in hand, along the pier. She’d expected bare, sun-kissed shoulders and flip-flops. In fact they’d needed to wear wellington boots as they bravely strode along the pebbles and, ultimately, they were driven back inside the hotel because of the bitingly cold sea wind. Still, the hotel had been cosy, there were compensations. Nat started to think fondly of the fireside loving they’d enjoyed in their Brighton suite – which brought her t
o item four on the ‘Birthday To Do List’.

  4) Wear matching underwear.

  Nat reached into her underwear drawer, rummaged around and then pulled out a flesh-coloured bra and knickers set which was edged with cream lace. Perfect. Dressy enough to show that she’d made an effort but comfortable and wouldn’t show through her blouse. Check.

  Natalie wanted to look her best. Dressing up was fun and she always believed preparing for a night out was part of the joy of the event. During her lunch hour she’d dashed to the hairdressers for a blow dry and last night she’d squeezed in a quick visit to the local beautician and undergone the masochistic act of having a bikini and half-leg wax. She’d thought longingly of the wonderful pampering treatments on offer. She’d have loved an Indian head massage or a rehydrating facial but Nat was aware that no matter what beauty miracles might be achieved through an hour in the floatation tank or a quick rub-down with hot stones, Neil would be more impressed by a tidy vadge and, after all, it was his birthday.

  Despite the fact that Nat had an important and nerve-wracking meeting with her boss in the morning she’d slipped out of work at exactly 5p.m. today; an unusual occurrence as Nat loved her job at the world’s largest pharmaceutical company and often worked much longer hours than those specified on her contract. She was happy to run the extra mile whenever asked (or even without being asked) as she believed what she did was life-changing and contributed to society at a profound level. Although, obviously, this was not an opinion she often voiced as she was aware that doing so would, at best, make her sound self-consciously worthy (which was unfashionable) and at worst make her sound self-congratulatory and smug (which was unattractive).

  She’d dashed home to shower, slather her body in moisturiser and pull on a fresh outfit. Home was a modest but stylish two up, two down terraced home in Chiswick, west London. Nat and Neil both loved living in Chiswick, a leafy, villagey sort of place, awash with bistros, trees, arty types and, less romantically but quite certainly, stuffed with commuters, Starbucks franchises and estate agents. They embraced both aspects of Chiswick life, the cool chic and the convenience. Proud and thrilled to have got on the property ladder at all, they were both delighted to be living in such a desirable part of London. They’d chosen to live in Chiswick because it was so convenient for both of their places of work. Nat’s office was in Brentford, less than three miles west of Chiswick, and Neil’s office was right next door to Goldhawk Road tube station, just two miles east. Neil had argued that the extra they spent on rent was offset because they barely had any commuter costs, they could even walk to work, he’d said somewhat optimistically. They rarely did so, they usually opted to stay in bed for an extra ten minutes and catch the bus. His figures didn’t add up but Nat also desperately wanted to live in Chiswick and so was prepared to pay the inflated rents if they had to.

  They had rented the house from the relative of an elderly woman who had been seeing out her days in a residential home. She died six months before their wedding and her relatives, keen for a quick sale, gave Nat and Neil first refusal on the property and offered it at a knockdown price. Nat and Neil had snapped it up; after all, for months they had been imagining and speculating as to what they would do with the property if it was theirs. As soon as they had the deeds, they started to strip the pink flowered wallpaper and painted the walls in taupe and beige shades. They ripped up the tatty carpets and varnished and polished the floorboards that secretly lay below. They painted the front door an imposing black and Nat spent a week online choosing a new knocker and letter box. Instead of a conventional wedding list, they asked their guests if they’d mind giving B&Q or Ikea vouchers, and before their first anniversary they had the kitchen and bathroom replaced. They had potted plants on the window sills and blinds rather than curtains in every room. They had their perfect home.

  They lived in a small, thin road, south of Chiswick High Road. True, they could always hear the A4 traffic whiz or chug by (the speed of the traffic was time-dependent, but it was safe to say there were snarls during most daylight hours) yet the noise was more than compensated for by the fact that they were a short walk away from Ravenscourt Park, if they ever craved greenery, a stone’s throw away from countless trendy bars and cute chichi shops, if they ever needed to buy anything pretty, tasty or luxurious, and for Nat, the best thing of all about Chiswick was that it was nestled right next to one of the long, lazy loops of the River Thames. She often dragged Neil out of bed on a Sunday morning so that they could amble along the Chiswick Mall, a road lined with elegant and shockingly expensive houses, which had the pleasure of overlooking the Thames. The houses ranged in style from Georgian to gingerbread; the thing they had in common was that all the residents enjoyed tremendous views of the river.

  She had hoped to meet Neil at home this evening so that they could go to the restaurant together. Truthfully, she had thought that maybe, somewhere between applying the body moisture and picking out what she’d wear tonight, they might have the opportunity to make love. It wasn’t that Nat was expecting to swing from the chandeliers on this hot evening; she would have been extremely content with something more straightforward, something satisfying in the missionary position, perhaps. Neil invariably left his office the moment the clock struck five. He loved his work too, he worked as a video games designer, an ambition he’d had since he was a kid and discovered Pac-Man and Donkey Kong in a seaside arcade when he was on a family holiday in Blackpool, but he never saw the need to linger in the office. He could play games at home and call it research. Nat had thought he’d be home early enough for them to enjoy some lovely birthday sex and still get to the restaurant on time. Sex before the birthday dinner was preferable to sex after the birthday dinner because the important meeting with her boss tomorrow meant that Nat wanted to avoid a very late night if at all possible.

  Nat was aware that it was a thin line between being organised and squashing all artless and joyful spontaneity. Everyone knew spontaneity was a great thing to have in a relationship – in a personality, come to that – so she really wished that she didn’t think through every last detail with such precision but she found she couldn’t help herself. She was such a worrier. She had responsibilities, lots of them; responsibilities to her husband, to her boss, to her family, to her friends and to the maître d’ who was expecting them at 7.15p.m. precisely. She found that careful planning minimised the opportunity for disaster and disillusionment. However, extensive planning could not cancel all risk of disappointment, as was proved when Neil called her and said she was not to expect him home as Karl had insisted that they go for a birthday drink straight from work, to kill the time between work finishing and their reservation at the restaurant.

  ‘Do you mind?’ asked Neil with concern. He was aware that Nat liked to plan things and he didn’t want to mess up anything she might have arranged.

  ‘Not at all. It’s your birthday. The important thing is you have fun,’ Nat replied honestly. She didn’t think it was fair to say she was lying on their bed in her scanties; what would Karl do with himself when Neil made a dash from the pub?

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Certain. I’ll see you there. Has Karl arranged to meet Jen there too?’

  ‘Dunno, I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Do. You know what he’s like, he might just have a beer too many and forget that he has a girlfriend who is supposed to be joining us.’ Nat had introduced Jen to Karl about this time last year and she tended to feel responsible for their relationship staying on track; quite an undertaking as Karl was a consummate flirt and Jen was an absolute romantic. Neil often said that they were all grown-ups and that Nat shouldn’t feel she had to manage them but she couldn’t shake the habit.

  ‘Will do,’ said Neil. He glanced towards Karl, who was at the bar ordering drinks. Karl was chatting up a very beautiful redhead but Neil decided there was no point sharing this information with Nat, it would stress her out. Best thing he could do was go and drag his mate back to the table.
‘Better go. Love you, see you there. Thanks so much for arranging tonight, Nat. I’m really looking forward to it,’ he added sincerely.

  ‘You’re welcome. Love you too.’ Nat hung up and considered how she could best use the unexpected hour she now had to herself. She could tie the helium balloons to the bedposts, at the moment the balloons were just drifting around the house willy-nilly, or she could reread her notes for the morning meeting, or she could paint her fingernails. She decided that she would reread her notes and then arrange the balloons. Neil would be so excited when he saw the thirty-five balloons (various shades of blue and purple) as he was such a big kid. So there wasn’t to be birthday sex, at least not yet. That probably meant they’d have to miss out or she would have to stay up late. Nat put the issue to the back of her head and reached for her laptop. Oh well, Nat thought to herself. After all, sex isn’t everything.

  2

  Neil clawed through the fuzzy mess that was his mind and tried to grab on to the point his friend, Karl, was making.

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘A man can never hope for, think about or indeed actually have too much sex. Sex is everything it’s cracked up to be and more,’ Karl said with absolute, unwavering conviction. Then Karl closed his eyes and pursed his lips. He probably wanted to communicate certainty and confidence, but Neil thought his mate had only managed cool and smug. Karl liked to play the sage, even when he was pissed – especially then. Yet Neil and Tim had to grudgingly admit that Karl could afford to be cool and smug because, as his freshly relayed story about his recent antics with a Dutch air hostess proved, he was clearly still enjoying the sort of sex that is everything, although admittedly not always with his girlfriend, Jen.

  Sex is everything it’s cracked up to be and more. How profound was that? Neil stared at his empty wine glass, probably his fifth empty wine glass that evening, and two pints before that. The empty glass provided the answer to his question: his mate was deeply profound.