Men I've Loved Before

by Adele Parks

  ‘I’m not saying we have to have a baby right now but I don’t want us to leave it too late.’

  ‘We can’t leave it too late because I don’t want one, ever. Late is only applicable if you are assuming the event is ever going to happen.’

  Neil still hoped that she might change her mind. She was bound to, wasn’t she? You read it all the time in the Mail. There were armies of women who never wanted babies, wanted big careers instead and then when they hit their forties, whack, out of the blue it struck them. But it wasn’t so easy then. Sometimes it didn’t happen at all. They were left nursing yearnings and nothing more. He didn’t want that to happen to Natalie.

  ‘Look, honey, why don’t we agree to give it, say, three months’ serious thought and then we can pick up the discussion after a clear appraisal,’ he suggested.

  ‘I’ve given this a lot more than three months’ serious thought,’ said Nat, wounded and fraught. How could he not know that about her? ‘I’m sorry but I’m not going to change my mind.’

  ‘Natalie, I want to be a father. I want a child.’

  ‘I don’t’

  ‘That’s it, is it? End of discussion?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, yes.’

  ‘I need a family.’

  ‘No, you want a family. You need food and shelter.’

  ‘Don’t be an arse, Natalie. You know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘I’m not being an arse. I’m just saying you can’t pressurise me in this way, by confusing your desires with genuine needs.’

  ‘Being a dad is a genuine need.’

  ‘On a par with needing clean water?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nat felt sick. If he believed that, then they were in trouble, deep, deep trouble. So far, throughout the exchange, she’d talked to the wallpaper. Now she glanced his way. Her heart broke. Neil’s face, body, entire being, was scrunched into a tight ball of profound disappointment and dissatisfaction. Part of her wanted to put her arms around him, soothe him, reason with him and reassure him.

  Another part of her wanted to punch him.

  ‘You knew how I felt about having kids before we got married. We talked about it,’ insisted Nat. She was screeching now, panic, frustration and terror ambushed her ability to be reasonable.

  ‘I know,’ Neil shouted back.

  ‘You agreed!’ Nat took her anger and volume up a notch.

  ‘But now I’ve changed my mind.’ He met her tone.

  Silence. A bitter, spiky tension seeped through the house. Nat felt a cold, clammy sweat gathering in the crook of her elbow and the back of her knees. Neil felt his heart thundering against his chest. The only sound was a gang of drunks in the street who were singing and swearing by turn.

  ‘Well, I haven’t,’ said Natalie hoarsely.

  ‘Where does that leave us?’ Neil asked.

  Nat had been asking herself the same thing for weeks now but still her honest reply was, ‘I don’t know.’

  13

  He was not her One. He couldn’t be. Not if they disagreed on something so enormous. So fundamental. And yet she loved him. She loved him, still. That hadn’t changed. Had she married the wrong one? How the hell had she married the wrong one? It wasn’t like she’d skimped on her research; she’d dated enough guys before Neil. She’d always thought he was exactly, entirely, irrefutably, absolutely the perfect guy for her. It wasn’t fair. She’d been upfront, honest. He knew her feelings on babies before they walked up the aisle.

  Natalie found it hard to concentrate on Sunday while she cleared out the boxes from her parents’ house. She managed to sort out the junk into three piles: charity, bin, keep. She handled dropping off the stuff at the charity shop in the high street but if quizzed she’d have been unsure as to exactly what had gone into each pile as she was having such difficulty keeping her mind on the task in hand. She and Neil hardly said a word to one another all day. They’d avoided each other’s accusing and disgruntled stares, which was quite a feat in their tiny home and went to show what you could do if you put your mind to it.

  That night they lay stiff and silent side by side. Sleep eluded Nat who was used to Neil spooning into her; her bottom tucked into his groin, his arm heavily thrown over her body, cupping her breast, her cold feet on his shins. They always fell asleep in that position and they always woke facing one another; his morning breath, warm, not unpleasant, starting her day. Not on Sunday night. Nat stayed plank-like, flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. When she woke up she had a crick in her neck.

  Now she was finding it difficult to put her mind to anything at work. The words on her Mac flittered about like skittish insects on a picnic blanket on a hot day. A series of clinical studies . . . the efficacy and safety of paroxetine . . . children and adolescents . . . obsessive compulsive . . . results available . . . second technology appraisal . . . consultation document . . . Tyverb, in combination with capecitabine . . . treated . . . metastatic breast cancer. She reread the reports four times each but still the dot dot dots appeared in her head at regular intervals. She couldn’t make sense of anything today.

  The tea lady with the trolley dawdled into the open-plan office, carrying hot drinks, a wide selection of chocolate snacks and a small selection of suspiciously uniform and shiny fruit. Her arrival was greeted with unilateral enthusiasm. Chocolate! That was the answer. Nat reached into her bag and felt around for her purse. Her bag was like Dr Who’s TARDIS. She found an umbrella, a notebook, business cards, Tampax, make-up but where was her damn purse? Then her fingers met the soft, warm leather of her Little Black Book. How did that get in there? She thought she’d chucked it. A smile hopped on to her face for the first time since Saturday night. Why did the address book make her smile? Even just the thought of it. Some sort of magic? Suddenly Nat didn’t feel like chocolate any more.

  ‘Do you know what this is, Becky?’ Nat asked, waving the small address book at her colleague.

  Becky looked up from her desk, pleased to have an excuse to take a break from reading her screen. Becky had (as usual) partied hard all weekend and was struggling to stay awake on this dull Monday morning. ‘No idea,’ she said through a stifled yawn.

  ‘It’s my old address book.’

  ‘And?’

  Nat knew it would probably be wisest to just put the book back in her bag or in the bin like she’d originally intended; it certainly wasn’t sensible to start flashing it around the office. The names in it belonged in the past and Nat had enough confusion in her present not to waste time thinking about the past and yet, talking about the book was somehow irresistible.

  ‘Fondly referred to as my Little Black Book,’ added Nat with a self-conscious grin.

  ‘I see!’ laughed Becky, and of course Becky did see, probably more than Nat intended her to. Still single, Becky counted her BlackBerry amongst her greatest and most treasured possessions, far more import ant to her than a pretty clutch bag or even designer shoes could be, probably on a par with her driving licence. Becky’s BlackBerry was a more or less comprehensive list of the contact details of half of London, the male half. Often, if Becky was bored, she trawled through names she stored in her BlackBerry and amused herself by thinking about a series of near misses, grand passions and wet squids. She found it a marvellous way to pass the time. The shy smile on Nat’s face made Becky wonder whether Nat had been indulging in a similar harmless and delightful trip down memory lane. ‘Hence the grin,’ she said, pleased to see Nat more cheerful. She hadn’t done much smiling in the past month and this morning she hadn’t said a word. Becky had been on the verge of asking Nat if everything was OK. She hadn’t, because her experience of working with Nat was that Nat wasn’t one for shared confidences, she certainly wouldn’t be pushed into saying anything she didn’t want to. She always played her cards close to her chest. Becky thought it best to pursue the line of conversation that actually had brought a smile to Nat’s face. ‘So, this book is full of the details of men you once had salacious love affai
rs with, is it?’ teased Becky.

  ‘No,’ Nat replied, quickly enough for Becky to be certain she’d hit the nail on the head. ‘Well, there are a few ex-boyfriends’ numbers in there, I suppose,’ Nat admitted. ‘But there’re also names of friends, a proportion of which I’ve now completely lost touch with. It’s strange to think these people could have once meant so much to me, and now I don’t even know which continent some of them live on.’ She hoped she’d managed to hit the correct tone, one of someone making a general passing comment. She didn’t want to admit to Becky, or anyone else, how exciting she found the old address book. Or, more specifically, how exciting she found the names in it. Or, if she was being absolutely accurate, how exciting she found the names of the men she’d loved before she had fallen in love with Neil.

  ‘Well, it’s impossible to stay in touch with everyone we’ve ever met,’ pointed out Becky.

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Nat. She held the book in her right hand and was caressing it with her left, as though she was trying to absorb some of the vibrancy and warmth it once represented; she hadn’t noticed that she was doing so, although Becky did. It wasn’t like Nat to be at all dreamy or distracted. ‘I found the address book amongst a load of junk at my parents’. I can’t think what it’s doing in my bag. I thought I’d binned it.’

  ‘Why would you bin it?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Well, what’s the point of keeping it? It’s not as though I’m ever going to look up any of these guys – these people – again, is it?’ said Nat with a shrug. She prayed Becky hadn’t noticed her telling slip of the tongue. It became apparent Becky had noticed when she replied.

  ‘I don’t see why not. I keep in touch with all my exes. Well, most of them. Not the axe-wielding psycho types.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re single.’ Nat thought that Becky was probably single precisely because she kept in touch with all her exes; when would she have time to meet anyone new?

  ‘It’s fun to see what they’re up to. Meeting up with a sexy dork from your past is healthy. It stops you romanticising the old days as it reminds you why you split up. Plus, it’s a harmless ego boost. They always tell you that you were the one who got away. They never mean it of course, but if everyone is aware of that then what’s the harm?’

  ‘No, I can’t see the point,’ said Nat, shaking her head. ‘Besides, it’s been years since I talked to any of them. I don’t imagine these contact details are still current.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. If your exes are anything like my exes they will still be living in the same place, doing the same job, probably still have the same haircuts. It’s scary how little the majority of us move on.’

  Nat laughed and put down the address book. Becky was funny, but no. No. She had enough problems right now. The last thing she needed to do was go and search out more complications. The people who had made the leap from her address book to her BlackBerry were the important people in her life; Neil, first and foremost, and her friends who had grown with her were enough to fill up her life. She had no need to dig about in the past. And no desire. No, none. She turned back to her screen.

  Now, about tyverb combined with capecitabine.

  Michael Young. The name drifted into her mind from nowhere. Nat wondered what was he was up to now. Married? Odds were against it as he was a bit of a loner and a bit prone to dark thoughts. Glass half empty, definitely. She couldn’t see him settled down, bouncing a plump baby on his knee. But then again, they were still teenagers when they split up. It was years and years ago. He might be completely different now. All that angst might have vanished with his acne.

  She wondered.

  No, no, it was a daft thought. The number she had in her address book for Michael definitely wouldn’t work, even if she did want to call it, which she didn’t. The number she had was his mother’s telephone number. They’d dated throughout sixth form and then for a couple of weeks at uni. But when she went north to Sheffield he went to London to see if the streets were paved with gold. Of course, they’d both met other people within weeks. She couldn’t even remember who’d done the chucking now. The end had sailed down a telephone line, that much she did know. The break-up with Michael Young had put her off long-distance relationships for ever.

  OK, right. The safety of paroxetine. That’s what she had to think about just now.

  Alan Jones. Now he was the sort of bloke parents liked. He was sensible, prudent and serious. He’d picked up where Michael left off. Four years she’d spent with him, but now they didn’t even swap Christmas cards. That was a bit odd, if you thought about it. Their relationship safely saw her through university and into her first London job. The official reason they broke up was because they wanted different things out of life. Although looking in from the outside it might have been hard to see exactly what they each wanted that was so irreconcilable. Alan currently lived about a mile from where Nat lived, also in a two-bedroom terrace (almost identical to her own), with his wife (of five years). Nat had heard that much from a mutual friend from uni. From time to time Cathy casually dripped through information about Alan but Nat never pressed for any details. Her curiosity about him had remained cursory. She was able to look back on this relationship and understand it but not miss or regret it, which generally speaking was an achievement when it came to exes.

  Richard Clark. He was more of a Dick really, in every sense of the word. She couldn’t remember him with any fondness. Why would she want to look him up? She wouldn’t. Hunt him down, perhaps with a gun. Natalie realised that she was holding the small leather book once again. The book fell open on Gary’s contact details. Gary, aka the Hunk. He had been a six-month long moment of madness. They’d met at the gym when she was twenty-four. On occasions when Natalie came across an old photo of herself with the Hunk she would always feel an urge to examine the girl in the snap closely with a wonderment that bordered on bewilderment. Natalie believed the girl in the photo must be her doppelgänger because the Hunk just didn’t make sense on any level. They had nothing in common. Not education, values, interests or even cuisine preferences. For the first month of their relationship they had enjoyed great sex. Great sex. The thought of that initial month could still bring a smile to Nat’s face, even now, even if it was pouring down or she was squashed in a commuter carriage. But the following five months were an elaborate exercise in trying to recapture that initial rush. An exercise that had been doomed to failure as the Hunk loved his own body far, far more than he loved Nat’s. He’d regarded the initial month as an intensive workout and not much more. There wasn’t a single reason on earth that would make Nat want to call him. What would they talk about?

  14

  Natalie pushed open the pub door and was slapped by the usual smell of beer-sloshed carpets, hot bodies and chips. She’d suggested this pub because it was near her office but not one that either she or Neil normally visited. It was busy and noisy and as such perfect for her current needs. She spotted a couple just leaving a table and headed directly to it. She took off her scarf and put down her bag and as she started to unbutton her coat it struck her, what in God’s name was she doing here? This was a stupid idea. She should just leave now. Right now. Walk out of the pub before he even got here. She quickly started to gather together her bag and scarf.

  ‘Hi, babe, barely recognised you.’ Too late. Gary the Hunk was standing right in front of her. A little too close to her in fact, he never did have any idea about personal space, she’d forgotten that but now she remembered it all too clearly. What did he mean, he hardly recognised her? Had she changed so much? ‘You weren’t running out on me, were you, babe? Not after going to all that trouble to look me up.’

  ‘Erm, it wasn’t any trouble, actually. More of a spur-of-the-moment thing. I just called the number I had for you. You still worked at the same gym so—’

  Gary waved away her comment and smiled – it was more of a leer, really. He seemed to want to believe that she’d hunted high and low for him. ‘I manage the gym now.’r />
  ‘That’s nice.’

  Nat had been surprised at herself when she made the call this morning and stunned that Gary had suggested they meet today. She’d vaguely thought that they’d have a chat, maybe put a date in to meet up in a week or so, which would mean she would have had opportunity to cancel. An opportunity she fully expected to take up even before the arrangement was made. But then Gary had said he was free that very evening and she hadn’t been quick-witted enough to think of a reason not to do so. After all, that’s why she’d called him, wasn’t it? Besides, she had nothing better to do. Neil was going over to Karl’s. Normally on a Monday night they had a quiet night in together, in front of the TV, but Karl was still avoiding Jen and so had invited Neil over. Neil had readily accepted and Nat prayed it wasn’t because Neil was avoiding her. She feared it might be. Truthfully, neither of them wanted to sit on the sofa with a resentful silence that screamed unresolved issues sitting between them.

  Nat quickly appraised the Hunk. Had his arms got larger since she saw him last? They were enormous or maybe they just seemed that way because Neil had ordinary-sized arms. Slightly bigger than average probably, but Gary’s were gigantic. He looked like Popeye, a little comical. Odd that she used to find those arms irresistible, she’d loved the fact that he was so big and strong as she used to feel petite and dainty in comparison. But now Nat measured strength by a totally different scale. For instance, Neil had been very firm with the estate agents when they’d bought their house; turned out that he was a demon negotiator.

  Gary’s hair was blonder than she remembered. That was a bit of a shock. A few of her friends were getting greyer and she wasn’t overly fond of grey and all it stood for. In fact, she’d tried to persuade Neil to start colouring his dark hair now that it was sprinkled with white. He’d refused, citing George Clooney as his role model for greying with dignity. She’d laughed herself sick at the time, but now she was glad he’d ignored her. There was something disconcerting talking to a guy with glossier, blonder hair than her own.