‘You are funny,’ she says.
‘Am I? In what way?’
‘Well, because you’re so clever and precise and articulate and… hmm – rational, I suppose – but then there are all these other facets you don’t see at first: your playfulness, and sweetness. You’re more sensitive… and tender… and kind than one would expect. When I first met you, I thought you were rather stiff and formal. I mean, I could see you were incredibly attractive, but you just seemed so self-contained, so controlled that I couldn’t really imagine you ever showing your feelings or being wild and rude and delicious in bed…’
‘Ah, but that’s your influence.’
‘Is it? I’m glad then. Yes, you were rather shy the first couple of times, weren’t you? I think I shocked you the first time I used the word “fuck”. Now you’ve become so direct. I love it.’
Talking and talking and talking; laughing and talking, and touching and talking. He can say anything to her – anything! And when they disagree – about a particular painter, or the design of a building, even politics – they argue vehemently, fiercely, but it doesn’t dampen their feelings for each other; if anything, the friction adds an exciting crackle of static, and makes him want her even more. There is no one else with whom he can be so relaxed, no one else with whom he knows it is absolutely all right to be himself.
And so it continues, each carving out a larger and larger slice of their lives to encompass the other. She has had other lovers before, of course; he knows that. She’s no simpering ingénue; quite the contrary, in fact. He does not like to think of the others who came before him, but he thinks they must have been fools to let her go. How awful must their lives be now? Grey, devoid of the spark, the passion, the deep joy that surely only she could bring.
Sometimes, as they lie in bed talking quietly, they discuss the difficult things, his other life. She tells him she would make a hopeless wife.
‘You could well sit there all day waiting for breakfast. I’m a bloody awful cook, you know.’
‘Then I’d do it. I don’t care anyway – I wouldn’t want breakfast.’ His hand curves over her waist once more to linger on the irresistible place where her back swerves outwards to her beautiful bottom. ‘Rather have the extra time in bed.’ Pulling her close now to kiss her again, slipping his hand down between her legs, the thrill of hearing her breathing quicken once more.
‘And supper?’ Her voice blurry now.
‘Sandwich. Takeaway. No time to eat anyway when I need to carry you off to bed at every opportunity, my love.’
‘You do,’ she says. ‘That is your official job now. Bollocks to the British Museum, say I. Tell them you can only pop in there once a week for half an hour as I am extremely demanding.’
Afterwards, she scoops herself against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her soft hair tickling his cheek.
‘See how perfectly you fit, my love.’ He tucks her hair back behind her ear. ‘This is where you belong. I just need to…’
‘I don’t want you to feel pressure from me. I would never ask you to leave.’
‘I know. I know you wouldn’t.’ He kisses her once more. ‘You’re the most incredibly unselfish person I’ve ever known. It’s just difficult. The boy is a constant worry. And she – she indulges him. I have to be there to – to – steer the ship a bit.’
‘I know.’ She kisses him and strokes his cheek very softly. ‘I will wait, dear heart, I will wait. For as long as it takes. Just…’ She stops.
‘Just what?’
‘Just never stop loving me, OK?’
‘Never, my love,’ he says. ‘Never.’
30
En Route from A to B
For their second date, Andrew and Olivia went to see a film. They held hands in the darkness, teenagers again. Afterwards, he drove her home and they kissed on her doorstep once more. This time, she invited him up for coffee, with a warning that her ever-present sister might also be in. When they got upstairs, Madeleine was indeed hanging out in the open-plan kitchen-cum-sitting room with a gaggle of her friends, eating pizzas and knocking back vodka shots.
‘Hey, Liv, come and join us! And you’ve got the boyf with you, too!’
Andrew said hello and stood there awkwardly. He really didn’t want to sit there stone-cold sober with a load of pissed twenty-five-year-olds; he’d feel like their sodding chaperone.
Olivia drew her sister aside and said something very quietly to her. But then Madeleine practically shouted in response: ‘Go to your bedroom, why don’t you? God, chill out! It’s not as if we’re all going to listen to you while you’re at it.’
Her friends laughed and erupted into a series of whoops and fake orgasm crescendos. Olivia flushed deep red. She took Andrew to her room but left the door wide open.
‘I’m so sorry – that was so embarrassing. She’s awful when she gets drunk.’
‘Don’t give it another thought. It’s OK.’ Andrew drew her closer.
‘You know, I do really like you, but I’m not ready to… I mean, I didn’t ask you in to lure you to my bedroom, I just wanted to…’
‘No need to fret. Really. There’s no rush.’ He kissed her lips softly.
At that moment, Madeleine walked past to the bathroom and said loudly: ‘Why have you got the door open, Liv? Are you wanting us all to come and watch?’
‘Oh, shut up, Mads. Give it a bloody rest.’ Olivia crossed her arms.
‘I think I’d better go.’ Andrew kissed her again. ‘But see you very soon, yes?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Shall we go out for supper again next week? Maybe somewhere easier to talk?’
‘That would be lovely. That’s the trouble with going to a film – people kind of frown on it if you talk all the way through.’
‘So, how are things going with your parents?’ Olivia asked as she sat opposite him for supper on their next date a few days later.
‘My parents? Fine.’ Andrew smiled, then stared back down at his food. Olivia was looking so lovely this evening, he was worried he might just sit there gazing at her in a sort of dumb trance. Hurrah – he’d made it to a third date. This was brilliant. And, my God, she was so different from Vicki – and entirely good different.
‘I mean, you are still staying there, right?’
‘Yes, just for a visit.’
‘A visit? Ah, I thought you were living there? Did I get the wrong end of the stick?’ She stopped eating and looked at him.
‘Drop more wine?’ He picked up the bottle and topped up her glass, then did the same with the water. Reached for his own water glass, took a sip.
‘It’s not a trick question.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not trying to catch you out or anything.’
‘No, course not.’ He tried to look at ease. ‘Well, strictly speaking… I suppose I would have to say that – technically – I am currently staying – living – at the house where my parents also live… in the short term.’ The mangled sentence sounded awful to his own ears so God knew what it sounded like to her.
‘You were living with a girlfriend before, you said?’
At least that sounded less pathetic.
Andrew nodded enthusiastically.
‘Yes, that’s right, but the relationship had… um… pretty much run its course so we decided to call it a day. It was all very civilised and amicable.’ That sounded grown-up, mature. No way was he telling her Vicki had chucked him out. He was about to ask her what she was reading at present, but it was too late.
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be intrusive, but if you knew you were leaving, why didn’t you arrange to rent somewhere else to move to?’
‘Well, yes, I could have done that, obviously. Yes.’ He gave a small sniff as if he considered it a rather conventional suggestion that he’d sensibly avoided. He took a sip of his wine, and nodded appreciatively.
‘But?’
‘But I decided that… in the end… it seemed sensible… ah, simpler… to… to have this brief – very brief
– ah, transition period… at my parents’… you know to… to… ah, take stock… and… and… so on. As it would be for such a short time.’
‘Transition period?’
‘Mmm.’ He nodded again, wondering how on earth to get off this bloody subject and onto safer ground. ‘You know, just like a – a – brief stop at the service station to refuel and have a quick coffee when you’re en route from A to B.’
Olivia raised her eyebrows.
‘I see. And may I ask how long this… refuelling stop has taken so far? You’ve been there… how long?’
‘Oh, really not long, not long at all. Couple of weeks. Who’s counting?’
‘Sorry, but hadn’t you already been there a while when I first met you? And that’s about a month ago.’ Her head was tilted to one side.
‘Well, not literally a couple of weeks. Obviously.’ He laughed airily, showing that he was really very relaxed about the whole topic, and took a deep swallow of his wine. ‘I mean, do you want the exact date? Wow, I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition!’ He saw her expression change and hated himself for being the cause of it, but why couldn’t she just stop, for God’s sake? So, he’d been there a bit longer than he meant to… a few weeks, so bloody what? Big deal. ‘I can check my calendar if you need to know the precise day and hour, for some reason?’ He took out his mobile and jabbed in his PIN.
‘Come on, Andrew, you know what I’m getting at. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’
‘You didn’t. It’s fine. I mean, obviously, I don’t plan to be there for ever.’
‘No.’ She frowned. ‘Of course not. I wasn’t implying that.’
‘But in the short-to-medium term…’ He paused, thinking: who talks like this? Not me. I sound like such a prat. ‘It merely seemed the expedient thing to do – a simple, practical solution.’
‘Mmm,’ she said.
‘And, you know, there’s a lot to be said for it, in fact. It’s handy for the tube, it’s comfortable, and—’
‘The thing is, Andrew, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m kind of a bit old to be with someone who’s still living at home. I can’t see myself tiptoeing up the stairs to get to some guy’s bedroom because otherwise his parents might hear, you know?’
‘I’m not still living at home. I have temporarily moved back for a brief stay. Big difference.’
He could feel himself flush. And why did she have to say ‘some guy’ as if she were talking about some random person rather than him.
‘And anyway, you wouldn’t have to tiptoe. My parents are very welcoming, in fact. You’d barely be in the door before my mother would have pressed tea and biscuits on you.’
There was a pause. Olivia glanced at him, then looked down at her food, moving it around the plate with her fork, but she had stopped eating.
‘Anyway, you can talk! You still live with your sister – and in your mum’s flat! Let he who is without sin, etc.’ He drained his wine with an air of triumph and reached for the bottle.
‘Er, my mother doesn’t live in the flat, Andrew, as you know. She owns it, yes, but we pay her a fair rent, and we don’t live with her; we’re not even in the same postcode. Big difference.’
He shrugged.
‘Hmm, you say that, but it’s essentially the same thing.’
‘No, it really isn’t. It’s not the same thing at all.’
He avoided looking at her. Why did she insist on dwelling on this? Now, he could see that she was upset and he didn’t know how to make things all right again.
‘Well, I think a psychologist would judge them to be basically equivalent – your mother’s flat, my parents’ house – at least I’m planning to move out very soon.’
‘What on earth’s a psychologist got to do with it?’ She sighed. ‘How soon, may I ask?’
‘Soon. At a time of my choosing.’ Stop it, Andrew, stop sounding like such a total arse.
Olivia set her knife and fork together and reached into her handbag.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Andrew, ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m merely pointing out that we are basically in the same situation, that’s all.’
‘OK. I’m really not in the mood to argue about this. I don’t believe you seriously think that sharing a rented flat with my sister is the same thing as living with your parents, but if you think it is, then fine, it’s exactly the same thing.’ In a single movement, she deposited some notes on the table for the meal and stood up, scooping up her coat from the back of the chair.
‘You’re not going? No, don’t go.’
‘I’m sorry, I think you’re a lovely man, I really do, but clearly there’s not much mileage in this and we’d do better to call it a day now before I – before we – one of us starts taking it seriously. I have to go now. Look after yourself.’
‘No – I… Hang on. Please don’t go.’ He signalled frantically at the waiter for the bill, while trying to shove the table back so that he could get out. The wine bottle toppled over and smashed onto the floor before he could catch it. Andrew swore and waved at the waiter again. By the time he’d paid the bill and got his coat and dashed out onto the street, there was no sign of Olivia. He took out his phone and stared at it. He would call her and say he was sorry. He would tell her he was going to start looking at flats tomorrow. No – tonight. He could make a start online, right now, the moment he got home. Not home – his parents’ house. He’d… he’d… No, he’d text instead – much better – less desperate, more casual.
He tapped in a brief message:
Sorry about that. Hope you’re ok. Are you at bus stop? Can I come and meet you? A x
She responded quickly:
I’m OK thanks. Already on bus.
No kiss. Oh well, give her a bit of time then. She’d call him tomorrow, probably. Or he would call her in a day or two. Still, why did she have to make such a big thing of it? Plenty of people moved back home for a bit if they needed to. It didn’t mean he was defective. It wasn’t as if he’d moved in permanently. An image of the new packet of striped pyjamas positioned on his single bed popped into his head but he shoved the thought away.
He would call the next day, he definitely would. Or maybe wait a day or two, give her time to forget what a fool he’d been. He would call and say he was sorry. He wouldn’t babble or sound like an idiot; he would be calm and composed, keeping it light just in case she said, no thanks, not interested, bugger off.
The thought gave him pause. Perhaps he should email instead, then he could compose exactly what he would say without getting flustered or thrown off-track if she was dismissive? After four attempts – too jokey, too heavy, too desperate, back to too jokey again – he abandoned the idea. Better to send a text. That way, it would be completely casual and, if she didn’t respond, then so what? It was only a text. He’d probably barely even notice whether she replied or not.
Over breakfast on Sunday morning, with Mrs Tyler safely upstairs, changing the beds, his dad asked, ‘Everything all right, son?’
‘Mmm.’ Andrew sawed through his grilled tomato and shoved a piece into his mouth.
Ron rested the paper on the table and raised his eyebrows.
‘Want to say what’s up?’
Andrew shrugged.
‘A girl, is it? Was it the one who came about the tree? You liked her, didn’t you?’
Naturally, he hadn’t told his parents about Olivia. If he’d confided in his mother, she’d be asking him about his progress morning, noon and night and he didn’t think he could stand that. His father was a different matter, and Andrew would have liked to tell him, but he knew it would make Dad nervous to have information in his possession that his wife wasn’t supposed to know.
‘We went out a couple of times, but… I don’t know. I messed up, Dad.’
Ron sighed. ‘Don’t go giving yourself a hard time, Andrew. I’m sure you didn’t do anything daft. These things aren’t easy.’ He cast a nervous look towards the door. ‘Have you tried talki
ng to her, like?’
‘I didn’t know what to say.’ Andrew heard his own voice crack and suddenly felt on the verge of tears. He took a bite of his toast and picked up his tea so he could mask his face behind it for a moment. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s over. I’m used to it. Just another woman who got sick of me. Big bloody deal. It’s such a regular occurrence, I barely even notice it any more.’ He stood up abruptly to clear away his plate and cup.
‘Finished, Dad?’ He hovered by the table, waiting for his father to finish up his breakfast so he could take his plate.
‘In a minute.’ Ron laid his hand on Andrew’s arm for a moment. ‘Sit for a second?’
‘I can’t. I have to go out, Dad. I’ve got things to do.’
‘I know you have, son. It’s just…’
‘What?’
‘Maybe give it another try, if you can, eh?’
‘Why? I’m fine. Plenty more fish in the sea, as Mum always says.’ Andrew stuffed his hands down into his pockets and started to head for the hallway.
‘Maybe so, but they’re not all the same fish, son, are they? I just…’
‘What? I have to go now.’
‘It was good to see you looking so happy for a while, that’s all.’
31
The Invisible Woman
The next morning, Sarah called while Eleanor was at work, saying she happened to be nearby Eleanor’s office and would she be free to come out for a cup of tea or an early lunch?
Eleanor met her at a café round the corner.
‘Are you OK?’ Sarah was one of the very few people on this earth who seemed to have some sort of finely tuned radar when it came to Eleanor, sensing when all was not well. Eleanor had occasionally confided in Sarah about the Cloud and how hard she found it to live with. But she had not said anything of late, partly because she knew Sarah was not exactly Roger’s biggest fan in any case, and she didn’t want to give her further reason to dislike him.
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