by Adele Parks
‘Well, darling, it’s no surprise. I mean you’re all grown up now.’ Then, somewhat abruptly, Nina changed the subject and started talking about her plans to buy a new second-hand piano.
23
Nat idly flicked through the well-thumbed wedding magazine that lay on the sofa, while Jen made tea in the kitchen. Jen’s flat was extremely neat and feminine. There was a heavy emphasis on the colours cream and lilac and all the furniture was delicate and fragile, so however often she visited, Nat could never shake the feeling that she’d been invited into a playhouse. Privately she thought the place would benefit from some neutral browns. Nat stared at the immaculate cream carpet with feelings somewhere between envy and mystification. What determination and effort it must take to maintain that pristine, show-home perfection. Nat’s carpet was beige and splattered with numerous war wounds from party spillages.
‘Do you make Karl take off his muddy trainers at the door when he visits?’ Nat asked, as Jen emerged from the kitchen. She was carrying a tray which held a teapot, milk jug, two cups and saucers and a cake stand that was heaving with chocolate biscuits. She’d been reading a lifestyle magazine that said tea served the way grandma used to serve it was vogue. Last month they’d drunk cappuccino in tall glasses, and the month before that they’d had fresh mint tea in earthenware beakers. Nat was beginning to think Jen really did need a wedding to organise but the bridal magazines were still wishful thinking. Karl had not proposed and Nat seriously doubted he had the intention to ever do so. Besides, she was still unsure whether she wanted her friend’s dreams to come true. She wondered whether Karl was the right man for Jen to hope for a genuine commitment from. Come to that, was Karl the right man for anyone to hope for genuine commitment from, anyone other than the barman at the Goat and Gate?
‘He doesn’t come here that often. He’s not keen on my flatmate, Chloe. They were quite pally when she first moved in but I think they must have had a fall-out. So I tend to go to his, rather than him come here.’
Nat wondered if Karl preferred Jen visiting his place because that led to the efficient dispatching of his ironing pile or whether he’d slept with Chloe and that was the source of the unease between the two of them. She couldn’t face pursuing the thought. It was a bleak conclusion to draw but Nat was finding it hard to trust anyone fully at the moment. Even herself.
She was riddled with anxiety and excitement. She’d had no idea both could sit side by side in her life. She had been determined not to revisit the Little Black Book, but days after Neil’s trousers had been through the wash and the fake tan stains had sloshed away, Nat found she was still irritated with him for visiting the strip joint. Why had he done that? His thoughtless behaviour had provoked her to more reckless actions; she called more numbers in the address book. Why had she done that?
She was surprised but Becky had it nailed, few of her exes had moved on and even if they had, it was easy enough to track them down through Facebook or simply by Googling their names. It seemed extraordinary to her but each of her exes readily agreed to meet up. Nat didn’t know what motivated them to accept her invite. Was it curiosity about her life, boredom with their own lives, or simply old-fashioned good manners? The result was always the same, her exes willingly agreed to meet for a drink. She hadn’t told anyone about these recent meetings. Not even Becky, who had more or less instigated the whole thing in the first place. Nat tried to convince herself that there was nothing to tell but in fact she knew that what she was doing was slightly below the belt because she paid an inordinate amount of attention to her clothes when she picked out an outfit for the dates. Well, it was natural to want to look your best if you were meeting up with an ex, no one could blame a girl for that. Dates? What was she talking about? They weren’t dates, they were meetings. At coffee shops, pubs and bars, that was all.
Weren’t they?
Whatever, it wasn’t something she felt she could talk about with her friends. Nat repeatedly and defiantly asked herself, what was there to tell? Really? So, she’d had a coffee with Daniel McEwan. That had been a total disaster anyway; unquestionably one of the most uncomfortable experiences of her life. Nat hadn’t been that into Daniel the first time she went out with him and things weren’t any better now, several years on. He had been a friend of a friend’s boyfriend and they had started dating because Nat’s friend had insisted they were well suited. Daniel was a pleasant enough looking guy, he had big brown eyes that he used to his advantage, he was a bit thin on top, he said it was a hereditary thing and indeed his dad and big brother were both bald as coots. He had nice manners; he had always opened the car door for her and walked on the side of the pavement that was nearest to the traffic. But he could be sulky and he had no hobbies nor many friends. Nat had always felt responsible for entertaining him, which was a little draining. Nat remembered very few specifics about their relationship. She knew they must have visited interesting places, got pleasantly pissed together and sometimes talked late into the night; she just couldn’t remember the actual occasions. She did remember that he was a dog-lover and that they had taken his Great Dane along on all their dates. While this limited the sort of dates they had (mostly walks in the park culminating in a pub garden), Nat had never had a problem with this as truthfully she’d felt more affection for the dog than she did for Daniel. She’d allowed the relationship to go on far longer than it should have done. They dated for about a year and then, finally, she found the courage to tell him that she didn’t think they had a future. Nat had thought she’d never forget the icy hurt and disbelief in Daniel’s big brown eyes as she delivered her exit speech. His eyes had screwed up to shrunken disappointed raisins right in front of her. But she had forgotten his hurt and disbelief, or else she would not have called him.
Within minutes it became clear that Daniel McEwan had only agreed to meet up with Nat to show her how he was well and truly, completely and utterly over her. He’d insisted on showing her photos of his wedding day, his kids, his car and his cottage. Natalie genuinely wished him well but he didn’t believe her. She didn’t much care because the fact that he was so besotted with his kids showed that she’d made the right decision in ditching him all those years ago. Daniel McEwan was not her One.
And she’d had a meal with Michael Young, so what? Oh yes, and a cocktail with Richard Clark (yes, she’d even met up with the Dick and she’d managed to resist clubbing him with a blunt instrument). It wasn’t as if she was whipping off her knickers and waving them above her head. A girl had to eat and drink, didn’t she? That was all she was doing. Nat stole a glance at Jen and weighed up whether she could tell her about Richard Clark. Jen would be quite interested in the outcome of Nat’s drink with him. It was the sort of episode they used to laugh and chat about.
Richard represented so many lost hours to Nat; he was all about unanswered questions, regrets and longings for replays. Nat hadn’t expected that she’d ever have the nerve to call him but secretly she’d wanted to from almost the moment she saw his name whizz past her eyes when she first flicked through the worn address book. Nat knew she’d never retrieve the endless hours she’d spent examining how and why he had slipped through her grasp (had she held him too tightly? Had she allowed him to roam too free? Had she been too furtive? Had she talked too much? In short, what was wrong with her?). Still, she longed for the opportunity to put some of the questions to him, rather than those questions forever being confined to her bathroom mirror.
Nat had always considered Dick Clark, a male model, out of her league, but truthfully nobody minds punching above their weight. When Nat had been in her early twenties, she’d met Dick in a nightclub. He was captivating to look at. Everyone agreed, male and female alike. Wherever Dick walked, a tidal wave of heads would swivel in his direction. People stared, open-mouthed in astonishment or anticipation. Nat had stared too but with the eye of someone appreciating a piece of art in a gallery, not because she had any expectation of tenure. Nat was used to a certain amount of male attentio
n, enough to inform her presumptions about who she was attracted to and who she would attract. There were better looking women in the bar the night they met and in Nat’s experience people as beautiful as Dick only ever left bars with other people as beautiful as Dick. It had therefore been astonishing to Nat that Dick had singled her out. He’d made an obvious beeline for her, bought her drinks, danced with her and talked to her all night. Then he took her home and made love to her between his black satin sheets. It had been flattering. Extremely, breath-stealingly so.
In truth, Nat had been so flattered by the attention of this cruelly beautiful man that for the duration of their short romance (and long after it was over) she’d managed to ignore the fact that he always borrowed cash from her in order to buy drinks (and clothes and CDs too). She’d pretended to enjoy the fact that they always attracted a whooping crowd as Dick confidently strutted his funky stuff on the dance floor, while she stared at her feet and tried to ignore the irritation flash in his eyes if she stepped on his toes. She had been so flattered to be the woman he outshone that she ignored the fact that his conversation often made her feel uncomfortable. He was undoubtedly witty but he was often mean-spirited or downright nasty (unless of course he was talking about his favourite topic – Dick Clark; then he had nothing but praise). Nat had also managed to ignore the reality that when they made love, Dick never put any effort into satiating her needs or desires. She’d even managed to ignore the fact that she had once found scanty, frilly pants, which definitely weren’t hers, in his wash basket. Yes, she used to do his washing! His attention had been so utterly and completely flattering that when he ditched her (nastily and unceremoniously, by introducing her to his new squeeze), Nat believed her heart to be broken and thought she’d never, ever recover.
At first, Nat had found it difficult to flick through magazines or catch a bus because she’d spot his face, in all its terrifying beauty, staring out at her from the pages or posters. She’d stroke his glossy image, longing to feel his real cheek beneath her fingers. Nat had feared that she’d never have such an amazing boyfriend again and that she’d already peaked; she’d believed that it would all be downhill from then on. But Nat was ultimately a sensible woman and after a few months away from Dick’s realm of charm, she’d had to admit, at least to herself, that stroking his image on a glossy magazine was not a bad substitute for actually dating Dick. Indeed, it was an almost identical experience. As his girlfriend, all that had been required was to remain adoring. Their relationship had been a one-way street and nothing had changed now that they had split up, except she wasn’t lending him hard cash. It was true she never did have such a beautiful boyfriend again, but it was comforting to know she’d dated many more amazing and amusing men.
Over the years Nat had taken a certain amount of pleasure following Dick Clark’s career. It had been fun to point at the beautiful man in the adverts and say, ‘I dated him.’ She hardly ever added that she’d only dated him for six weeks until Neil had called her on it one day. By then the sting had long since died and when Neil had narkily pointed out that advertising agencies constantly touched up models’ photos to hide imperfections, Nat had been able to agree enthusiastically, admitting that Dick did suffer from open pores. Dick’s career had gone very well for a period of time. He became ‘the face’ of a designer perfume, securing TV ads as well as print. Nat had read somewhere that he was going to be an actor although she hadn’t ever seen him on TV. She’d assumed he’d gone to LA to make his fortune there.
Dick had his own website. It was covered with black and white pictures of him moodily staring at the sky or the ground or the camera, it didn’t matter where he was staring, he always looked moody and sensational. There was no doubt about it, Dick was delicious. The more Nat stared at the website, the more she thought that maybe Dick was what girlfriends might playfully describe as the one who got away. He certainly looked just like someone who eternally got away. She had said she never wanted to see him again but Nat found herself hovering over the ‘contact me’ button on his site. Did she dare? Would he even remember her?
Nat hadn’t thought it likely that Dick would agree to meet up with her. No doubt he’d be too busy going to film premieres or being interviewed for Vogue and so she’d been surprised when he’d replied within minutes of her sending her tentative blast from the past message. Dick had said he’d love to meet up ‘and talk about old times’. He’d suggested they meet at Soho House, adding that he was a member and so Nat mustn’t worry about gaining access.
Face to face with Dick, Nat had found herself assessing him as she’d always done, as everyone had always done. Throughout his life Dick had got used to the fact that when people looked at him they did not think, ‘Oh, he’s looking happy/worried/tired’, or even, ‘That’s a nice tie, I wonder where he got it from’, which is the sort of thing most people think about one another when they first set eyes on each other. No, when people looked at Dick they thought about how beautiful he was. At least, they used to. Now, people thought about how beautiful he had once been.
He wasn’t fat, exactly. Well, yes, he was fat but not gross. But where precisely had his cheekbones gone? Were they slumbering somewhere beneath the squidgy flesh? Nat wondered. His jacket no longer fitted properly, it strained at the shoulders and he’d tugged constantly at the sleeves all evening. His fingers were like unwieldy sausages. His eyes were still as blue as ever, of course, they couldn’t go to seed, and they still darted questioningly around the room. Nat used to think he had an inquisitive mind, now she suspected that he’d been checking over her shoulder for someone more interesting to talk to or someone hotter to screw. His eyes were sharp and cold – had they always been that way? Why hadn’t she noticed?
She’d sat opposite him in a big leather armchair. He’d sat comfortably far back on his so she’d been forced to hover uncomfortably on the edge of hers, leaning towards him in order to catch what he had to say. It was tricky as the place was full of loquacious people who all seemed to be talking at once – Nat was unsure who was doing the listening.
‘Are you married?’ he’d asked. Nat nodded but before she could add any detail about how long she’d been married or who she was married to, Dick jumped in, ‘I’m divorced.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Her loss. Fucking bitch. She was screwing some photographer,’ he’d snapped bitterly. ‘Fucking models, you can’t trust them.’
Nat didn’t have the nerve to point out that Dick was a model too. Besides, she wasn’t sure that he could still be modelling; she noticed that the zip on his trousers was gapping open. She pitied him, not for his fatness, that didn’t matter one way or another to her, but for his anger – that was truly ruining. Dick’s conversation betrayed the fact he found life disappointing. His laugh was forced and unnaturally high-pitched. Throughout their drink, he’d grumbled that there were no jobs, grumbled that those who did have them were incompetent, he’d dismissed good fortune as good luck, upgraded bad luck to conspiracy theories or a confirmation of the apocalypse. He’d frequently muttered, ‘I haven’t got a clue,’ and Nat thought it was the truest comment he articulated all night.
When Nat had thought about meeting up with Richard Clark she’d privately hoped that she might discover why he’d picked her out just to drop her unceremoniously again after only a few weeks, but as the clock slowly ticked (and, oh Lord, that minute hand did drag!) she’d discovered she didn’t really care. It didn’t really matter, not any more. She wondered if it ever had. Nat realised she’d had a lucky escape. If Dick’s attention span hadn’t been quite so limited, then she might have wasted more than six weeks with him. After just one round, she’d made an excuse to leave. She didn’t need to discover whether Dick wanted kids or not. She left in a hurry, letting out a huge sigh of relief; she was quite sure Richard Clark was not the One that got away.
Nat had initially secretly nursed a niggling worry that when she met up with her old flames she wouldn’t be able to stop herself u
sing an unacceptable familiar, flirty tone. She’d worried that it would be all too easy to slip back into old ways because once you’d had sex with someone it could be difficult to limit the conversation to the weather, but meeting up with Gary and Richard (men who had always created pleasant sensations between her legs, although notably not between her ears) proved that in fact she had no difficulty in steering away from anything remotely disreputable or risqué. She found that she didn’t reminisce about where they used to put their tongues, how she and these guys used to get hot and sweaty together, or even about which movies they’d watched way back when. In fact, she talked about Neil most of the time. Usually, although she never intended it to be this way, she ended up talking about Neil wanting babies and her not wanting them. How weird was that? The one subject she was hoping to escape from by arranging these meetings was the one subject she returned to again and again and again. It didn’t make sense. Michael Young, her boyfriend in sixth form, had said that it was understandable that she wanted to talk about this problem.
‘Is it? I thought that by meeting up with you and my other Little Black Book guys I’d be leaving all this domestic dross behind.’
‘You’re not that callous, Nat. You never were.’ He’d smiled fondly. ‘Although, for the record, I’m not too thrilled to be ganged in with a whole host of other “Little Black Book” names.’
‘Sorry.’ Nat had blushed. The redness bloomed from her neck, up her chin and into her cheeks. Michael thought how Nat’s propensity to blush had been so much a part of who she’d been when she was a teenager. He would’ve been surprised to learn that she rarely blushed nowadays.
Nat had considered that perhaps she was being naive. She’d ended up telling Michael the truth about why she’d suggested meeting because it was easier than making up a lie. Easier for her, no doubt, but maybe she should have been a bit more considerate of his feelings, just a little more tactful. She could have said that she’d found the Little Black Book and desperately wanted to catch up with him alone, instead of confiding that she’d met up with many of the others too. The problem was there were too many lies floating around her head right now and she didn’t have the energy to invent another; she was losing her grasp on what she’d said to whom as it was. For instance, the other day Becky had asked her what she was doing that evening and Nat had replied, ‘I’m going to the movies with you.’ She was not in fact, she’d been planning to meet Daniel McEwan, but she’d told Neil she was going to the movies with Becky (a girlie weepie with lots of changes of clothes and at least one dying boyfriend, not his thing, she’d assured him). So then she found herself saying to Becky, ‘Sorry, did I say with you? I meant with Neil, obviously.’ The next day she reported back to Becky, ‘Blood fest, horror film. Neil loved it.’