‘You’re the one doing research on your leaving lunch. Hold on …’
A middle-aged lady is hovering by the seats opposite us, struggling with two large bags from Bon Marché and a suitcase.
‘Here, let me,’ says Will leaping up.
‘Thank you! If you could put the food bags on top.’
‘That shop is amazing, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘My husband’s going to kill me! I spent 200 euros on cheese, I nearly had a heart attack at the till! Would you mind awfully keeping an eye on that lot while I pop to the ladies’?’ she says.
On her way, she crosses paths with a guy in his thirties coming towards our seats. He wears white linen over-pocketed trousers, a Billionaire Boys Club t-shirt, and a scarf that looks like he’s spent many effortful minutes in front of a mirror honing the knot.
He’s carrying two large Colette bags, a laptop bag and a sopping wet umbrella. With his phone cradled between shoulder and ear he starts piling the bags in the storage area.
‘YEAH, I SAID TO THE GUYS AT RED BULL, IF WE CAN DO A DEAL WITH DUBAI, IT’S ALL GRAVY. WE ARE GOING TO RAPE THE MARKET, ZAK, RAPE IT,’ he says, placing his Colette bags above, and slinging his wet umbrella casually on top of the lady’s food shopping.
Will leaps up to move her bags out of the way and the guy looks at us as if to say ‘Why the fuck is your shopping above my seat when you’re sitting over there?’
‘YEAH, SO TELL THAT PR NUMPTY AT FREUDS TO PULL HIS FINGER OUT OF HIS BOYFRIEND’S ASS AND DO A TIE-UP WITH ONE OF THE MAJORS, AND WE’LL GO BALLS OUT FOR SPRING. GOTTA GO DAWG, THE HATERS BE HATING ON ME …’
Will’s sat back down, and the guy stands up again, sniffs at the shopping, and with an exaggerated gesture pushes the Bon Marché bags of cheese further away from his Colette shopping. Will sticks a finger up at the guy’s back at the same time as I flash the tosser sign.
‘You’re very mature,’ I say, laughing.
‘Ditto,’ says Will.
The guy sits back down, puts on his iPod and starts reading a copy of GQ.
Will suddenly kicks me lightly under the table and points at the guy’s neck.
‘What?’
He beckons me closer and whispers ‘check out Bozo’s scarf,’ and sure enough, buddy next to us is the guy who buys the 845 euro scarf printed with naked women shagging a large cat.
‘What a wanker,’ I say, staring up at his shopping.
‘Yup.’
‘No, I mean total and utter wanker. I’m sure that’s my umbrella!’ I say, noticing two of the spokes are broken.
‘Do you want me to say something?’ says Will.
‘I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘Excuse me,’ I tap him on the arm.
‘Huh?’ he says.
‘I’m sorry, but I think you might have picked up my umbrella in Colette … it’s just I noticed the one up there has two broken spokes, like mine.’
‘Oh, small world,’ he says. ‘That’s really funny.’
‘Right …’
‘D’you want it back?’ he asks, as if I’m being gratuitously vulgar.
‘Yes! If that’s okay!’ I say.
‘Law of umbrellas, isn’t it? Some you win, some you lose …’
‘Not really, when it’s pissing down with rain!’ I say.
He blows out sharply. ‘Whatever. Take it,’ he says, ‘it’s like a £2, broken umbrella.’
Yeah, I’m sorry it isn’t limited edition, Japanese and covered with naked lesbians, I’ll try harder to be fashionable next time you want to steal something from me.
The guy just shakes his head as if I’m out of line, gets up and heads towards the bar.
‘Did I just imagine that conversation or is he the world’s biggest cock?’ I say to Will, who is shaking his head in disgust.
A moment later Will says ‘… have you still got that truffle from earlier?’
‘You’re going to pin him down and stuff it in him?’
‘Almost. Can you keep a straight face?’
‘What are you up to?’
‘Karma police …’
Will heads off to the bar and returns carrying two gin and tonics and quietly chuckling to himself. He is followed a short while later by the world’s biggest cock, carrying a can of Guinness.
‘What?’ I mouth at Will.
‘Good things come to those who wait …’ he says, handing me a glass and relaxing back into his seat with a secret smile.
‘Ah, good gin and tonic, lots of lime,’ I say, taking a large sip.
‘I love lime,’ says Will.
‘Me too! But only with booze or savouries. I can’t be dealing with it in desserts, although I will make an exception for a decent Key Lime Pie.’
‘Did you know Key Lime is also known as Mexican Lime?’ says Will.
‘Is it?’ I say, taking another sip. ‘Mexican Lime Pie … I’d actually like a pie made entirely of limes and avocados, not cooked of course. Nothing worse than a hot avocado.’
‘Hot avocado’s almost as bad as chicken sushi.’
‘What?’
‘Raw chicken. They eat it in Japan.’
‘No! Not possible,’ I say.
‘It’s true, I’ve seen it on a menu. Anyway, tell me more about your exciting new pie. So far it seems to consist of some avocados … and some lime,’ he says, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
‘Okay. So, maybe the pie bit is made out of puff pastry. No, that won’t work, texture’s too soft with the avocado. Aha! Tortilla chips?’
‘An avocado. And some tortilla chips?’ says Will, raising an eyebrow at me.
‘Yes,’ I nod.
‘I think TGI Friday’s already sell that and call it guacamole, don’t they?’
‘No. Yes. Well, it would be so much more than just guacamole. You could have … like … a guacamole and crisp ensemble but in a circle, or a triangle. Yes! A triangle … to reflect the shape of a tortilla chip, but much bigger… a giant tortilla chip base with crisps coming up the side like fangs but not scary fangs, friendly fangs … Stop looking at me like I’m drunk, Will, this is a terrific idea! Is this a double measure?’
‘Might be,’ he says, laughing. ‘I didn’t realise you were going to neck it so quickly. I’ll get you another,’ he says, standing up.
‘No, no, my round,’ I say, wobbling a little as I head towards the bar, thinking that I do hope Will stays in touch after I leave. Otherwise I think I might miss him.
Will is giggling to himself when I return with the drinks.
‘What’s so funny?’ I say.
‘Nothing, just – ah, nothing. So, what’s next after Fletchers?’
‘Actually, I do have a plan …’
‘Tell me more,’ he says.
‘Oh, it’s highly top secret, I’m not sure I can tell you on a train. You never know who’s listening …’
‘Well, why don’t you whisper it then?’ he says, looking at me with a smile.
‘Maybe I will.’ I lean across the table and he moves to meet me halfway.
My lips are an inch from his earlobe. Our faces are almost touching.
If he turned his face slightly we’d be kissing.
I think I want us to be kissing.
I’m distracted by a movement to my left. Scarf Boy has chosen this exact moment to stand up noisily and head to the bar, and he is impossible to ignore.
I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. I look at Will who is trying hard to keep from smiling, and simply nods his head once: yes. It’s true. And yes – I did it.
As Scarf Boy walks through the carriage I see a row of heads doing double takes at the sight of a grown man in white linen trousers, sauntering along, entirely unaware that a dark brown Ecuadorean hibiscus mess is squishing out of his bottom.
I’m amazed Will is capable of such a silly yet audacious manoeuvre. I didn’t think he was the type. ‘Why did you do that?’ I say.
‘Because he deserved it,’ he says. ‘He was rude and arrogan
t, and he stole your umbrella.’
‘You were defending my honour?’
‘That, and I didn’t want the chocolate to go to waste. Four euros is four euros – we are in a recession, you know.’
‘What if he realises and comes back out and decks you?’
‘I’ll take my chances, Soph. If he challenges me to a duel, you’ll back me up, won’t you?’
‘We’ll go out in a blaze of glory …’
As our train pulls into St Pancras, I feel a twinge of sadness. I don’t want today to be over. I don’t even know if I’m going to see Will again. If he lived in London I’m sure I would. But he doesn’t – so now what?
‘I’m sorry, but I have to sprint over the other side to make my train,’ he says, grabbing his coat from the rack and handing me my umbrella. ‘You take very good care of this now!’
‘Thank you for today,’ I say. ‘I had so much fun.’ More than I’ve had all year.
‘Me too,’ he says, smiling. ‘Do you think we might do it again sometime?’
I try to ignore the little wave of hope that swells up in me. I’ve only just moved from crushed to bruised.
Love’s a risk, but I’m not sure I’m ready to take it just yet.
That night, for the first time since I kissed James Stephens nearly a year and a half ago, I go to bed not thinking about him.
But when I wake up, he’s the first thought on my mind.
Today’s the day. I text James to meet me at 7pm at 181 Picadilly. It’s round the corner from his office and I imagine him in the pub off Jermyn Street, downing a gin and tonic and working out exactly how he’s going to play this.
I leave work early, head home and put on my favourite ever vintage dress. The only time I ever felt annoyed that I’d shrunk to a size 8 was when I tried on this dress and it failed to cling to me.
This dress is made of black taffeta and was made in Los Angeles in the 50s. It has a square low neck, perfect elbow length sleeves, a tiny waist, and a full skirt and is pure Betty Draper all the way. This dress makes me feel strong and like a woman, and tonight it is a perfect fit.
James is at the counter staring at the door when I walk in.
His face lights up and it’s so very fucking annoying because the minute I see him, I realise I still entirely, chemically, utterly fancy him, and that as long as he and I are in the same room this will always be the case.
‘Great dress!’ he says, standing up to kiss me. When his body is next to mine, I have to stop my arms from wrapping themselves around him.
‘What are you going to order?’ he says, handing me the menu.
‘Don’t need the menu,’ I say. ‘Knickerbocker Glory with a cherry on top. You?’
‘A bottle of red! So. Why did you choose this place?’ he says, looking at me carefully and then smiling.
‘Just felt like it. My granny used to bring me here when I was little.’
‘Good holiday?’
‘Yes. Have you been keeping well?’
He nods. ‘Keeping busy. Oh … I’ve got you something …’
He motions to the waiter who reaches under the counter and brings out a small box.
‘Rob was in New York at the weekend, I told him to bring this back …’
I open the lid and can’t help but smile: an original Compost Cookie.
‘Thank you. Thank you, Rob,’ I say.
He looks at me and smiles. He puts his hand on my knee and I don’t brush it off.
‘I haven’t told you, him and Lena are having a baby! He’s been putting in the extra hours drinking, ’cause she’ll have him padlocked indoors any day now …’
‘I’m sure he’ll figure out the combination in no time.’
‘He’s freaking out about it all, thinks it’s the end of his freedom …’
‘Well, it’s the end of him being the child in that relationship …’
‘Do you think our kids would be better looking than Rob and Lena’s?’
‘Apparently firstborns look like their dads, so it depends on who the father of my kids is …’
‘What? No, I meant our kids, imagine our kids …’
What I can imagine is being heavily pregnant and you going out with Rob to the pub every night because you can’t bear to look at my swollen ankles.
‘I think Genghis and Jasmine would definitely be better looking,’ says James.
‘I don’t care if they’re better looking. I’d just want them to be healthy and kind and smart, if possible.’
‘Yeah, of course. But it’d be better if they were good-looking, too.’
I take the cherry off my ice cream sundae, its bottom covered in whipped cream, and I squidge it on James’s nose, then eat the cherry. ‘You’re still a total idiot,’ I say, smiling. ‘Now why did you want to meet me?’
‘Because I wanted some feisty girl in a sexy black dress to cover my nose in whipped cream in the middle of Fortnum and Mason’s, and the birds from the escort service said they don’t do that kinky stuff …’
‘Why else?’
‘I needed to give you the cookie.’
‘You’ve given me the cookie.’
He pauses, looks at me and takes a breath.
‘And because I think, maybe, I messed up with us.’
I wonder if he’s going to say it. The one word I want to hear. No, not ‘love’ – I learnt to live without that from him, grudgingly, like I’m now learning to live without too much white bread. No, the one word he’s never said and he’d never even think to say: sorry.
But does he need to? I’ve forgiven him. I’ve forgiven myself.
He takes another breath. ‘I miss talking to you,’ he says.
‘I miss talking to you too.’
‘I miss singing in the car with you, and going for walks, and all the fun we always had together.’
‘So do I.’ Every day.
‘I miss the way you think about the world. I miss your cooking!’ he says.
I miss cooking for you. But I don’t miss you telling me to eat fewer peanuts.
‘I miss lying in bed with you and babbling about random, silly stuff.’
Me too. Me too. But I don’t miss feeling strung out from insecurity because this Tuesday you do want to shag me, but last Wednesday you didn’t.
I know what my life would be like with James. If I stayed slim and well maintained and aloof and played a constant game and kept him on his toes all the time, he’d eat out of my hand, for a while. If I never had a bad day, never showed weakness, never put on weight, never needed reassurance, never got old, I’d be just fine.
‘What are you thinking?’ he says.
I love you, but.
Love is a risk.
And actually, I am prepared to take it again.
Just not with you.
‘Soph, tell me what you want.’
I want to live with a man in a home that we share, that is filled with books and silly postcards we’ve found in weird and random places across the world.
I want to spend weekends eating nothing but very strong cheddar cheese on fresh bread, with loads of unsalted butter, and not have someone call me fat on a Sunday night.
I want to grow old gracefully, and never feel like sticking a needleful of Botox in my forehead because my husband’s started to eye up younger women.
I want a relationship like my grandparents, where my grandpa made my grandma a cup of tea every morning for fifty-five years and told her she was the most beautiful woman in the world, even though she could be crotchety, difficult and wouldn’t win the swimsuit round in Miss World.
I don’t want a man who has to ‘try to get past’ my weight. I don’t want a man who my friends think is an idiot. I don’t want a 45-year-old who acts like a 25-year-old – that’s the worst of all worlds.
Turns out I don’t really want you, James Stephens. I want a better man.
‘I wish you were built differently,’ I say.
‘I wish I was too, Soph …’
; ‘No, you don’t. You wish I was.’
‘What?’
‘You wish my hips were narrower, my bottom was smaller, my legs were better.’
‘I don’t know why you think that,’ he says.
‘Because you’ve said it. To my face. Twice. And you say it every time you tell me not to eat so many bar snacks.’
‘Soph, you are totally over-reacting.’
‘No, I’m not. I’ve been under-reacting for so long, you just got used to it.’
‘Listen, this place is about to close. Let’s go and get some supper and talk about this. We could see if we can get into that nice Italian round the corner …’
‘James. I’m going to stay here and eat this ice cream sundae. I’m going to enjoy every single mouthful of it. And you can sit there and watch me if you like. Or you can get in to your Maserati and tell yourself “all women are mad”. That’s your choice. But when I’ve finished, I’m going outside to get the bus back home. On my own. And that is my choice.’
And while I want him to fight for me, and tell me he’s realised he’s making a mistake, and that he wants me, fat, thin or in the middle, the truth is, he really isn’t built that way.
And for the first time I actually start to feel sorry for him.
It’s the Sunday after my final day at Fletchers, and I’ve invited Laura and Dave, Pete, and Zoe and her new girlfriend Cheryl round for tea. Will’s driving down from Sheffield especially. He’s been down a couple of times since we went to Paris. I like being around Will. A lot.
The flat is tidy. I’ve been all the way over to Columbia Road this morning and bought five bunches of orange tulips. I popped in to St John for a perfect bacon sarnie and a couple of loaves of fresh crusty bread. Then I drove into town and spent the Selfridges gift voucher from the watch James gave me, on some cases of great wine. I’ll give one to each of the guys later, and one to Maggie when I see her.
Sandwiches are made, as is a pitcher of frozen margarita. I made it with my new ice-crushing machine that I asked for as a leaving gift from work. Zoe did a great job on my collection – I also got £300 of John Lewis vouchers. It won’t stretch to a Sub-Zero fridge, but no one actually needs a Sub-Zero.
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