by Matt Dunn
‘A measly drink for saving your Ferrari? You tightwad!’
‘It’s the least I can do.’
‘Yeah – it probably is.’
Nick looks hurt. ‘Sorry, mate. Packet of crisps as well?’
‘Cheese and onion?’
‘Done!’
It’s nudging three o’clock by the time we pull up outside Nick’s flat, the Ferrari obscenely loud in the pre-dawn stillness. As I look up at his window, it may be my imagination, but I’m sure I see his bedroom curtains twitch, and Sandra’s face scowling down.
Chapter 10
Having a conscience is a good thing. Trouble is, mine is of the ‘guilty’ variety at the moment. So even though Nick is steaming ahead with his wedding plans, all I can do is watch helplessly from the sidelines. Besides, I’ve got something else, or rather someone else, on my mind.
Relationships are a bit like new cars. They need a gentle running-in period if you’re to get the best out of them, and going flat out from the start can only lead to problems further down the road. So even though I’m straining at the handbrake, I make myself take things slowly with Charlie. Yes, I’d left her a message on the Saturday to say thanks for the previous evening. Then, as per my normal modus operandi to keep her keen, I’d sent her flowers on the Monday, and when she’d called to say how lovely they were we’d met up for a coffee and a chat. And whilst this might not seem like taking things particularly slowly, by the time we meet up again, on the following Saturday, I’m desperate to see her.
In an attempt to show off my arty side (or rather, give the pretence of having one) I decide to take her out for the afternoon, and so we’re off to see an exhibition at the Royal Academy. I actually called in the previous day and became a member (a ‘friend’ of the Royal Academy, they call it), to make it look like I’m a regular visitor. How sad and shallow is that?
Unfortunately, I got no further than the membership booth, and therefore neglected to check what the show actually contained. Instead of‘the work of Young British Artists’ being what I thought would be a wonderful collection of watercolours and still life paintings, it turns out not to be quite what I was expecting, as lifelike models of children with genitals for faces, sculptures made from the artist’s own blood, and dissected farmyard animals line the walls. We turn a corner and I nearly trip over a tent-like arrangement embroidered with the names of all the people that had slept with the ‘artist’ creator. To make matters worse she had, like me, actually been born in Margate, a fact that Charlie reads out to me with glee.
I usher Charlie quickly away from it then peer inside, surreptitiously checking the tent for my name while running through my memory for any half-Turkish arty types I might have ‘known’ at school. When Charlie looks questioningly at what I’m doing, I hope she doesn’t think I’m a pervert.
‘You pervert,’ she says, as we walk quickly through the gallery, but fortunately with an amused look on her face.
We don’t linger at the exhibition, but stroll instead down Piccadilly towards the Ritz, where I treat us both to afternoon tea. As we sit down in the faded splendour of the hotel, I notice that we’re surrounded by a curious mix, predominantly American tourists in garishly checked trousers, obviously bought from those tartan-only shops you see in this part of London. Also, the place is full of little old ladies taking tea whilst chattering to each other, all looking well over a hundred years old, about four feet tall and dressed up in full winter clothing despite the spring heat outside, with those flattened fox stoles around their necks, their glazed faces snarling menacingly at us.
After we’ve parted with the best part of forty pounds for a pot of tea, sandwiches with their crusts removed and a plate of fairy cakes, we stroll down through Green Park and sit on the grass opposite Buckingham Palace, watching the tourists annoy the sentries. We play the celebrity lookalike game for a while, where you point out someone in a crowd who you think looks like a famous person and then get awarded marks out of ten, where ten is if it’s actually the celebrity themselves. It takes Charlie a while to get the hang of this game because she keeps pointing out people I don’t know, like Mr Wilson, who turns out to be her old geography teacher, but eventually she wins due to someone who if it wasn’t that chap from University Challenge it was his twin brother.
We talk about past relationships, mine being a somewhat edited version, and I find myself feeling slightly jealous whenever Charlie mentions anyone with any more than a passing reference. We’re lying on the grass now, looking up at the sky.
‘So, Adam,’ she asks me. ‘What are your plans for the future?’
I ponder this for a moment or two. ‘Probably just to see as much of it as possible, I guess.’
‘You know,’ she says, as we watch a party of Japanese tourists politely take turns to photograph a squirrel on the grass nearby, ‘it’s actually quite refreshing to meet someone who has a bit more of a relaxed attitude to life, career, that sort of thing. A lot of the guys I meet seem to be obsessed with the idea of conforming to this male stereotype, where it’s all work, work, work. You know, put enough hours in at the office and they can change the world, or something.’
I give a short laugh. ‘No danger of that from me. I know I’m never going to make the world a better place. Besides, there’s too much pressure on men today. Thanks to magazines like bloody Cosmopolitan, women expect to march down the aisle with this fantasy male – six feet tall, with a six-pack, earning a six figure salary—’
‘Six-six-six?’ interrupts Charlie. ‘All sounds a bit sinister to me.’
‘At the same time, you’ve got to be the perfect father, and . . . I don’t know, hung like a donkey, maybe.’
‘Speaking of which, what about your friend Nick?’ she asks me.
‘I have no idea how he’s “hung”,’ I tell her.
Charlie digs me in the ribs. ‘No, I mean, have you spoken to him yet? About the wedding?’
‘I’ve tried.’ I sigh. ‘I’ve even attempted to show him the error of his ways,’ although I don’t elaborate on this, as I don’t particularly want to explain to Charlie about my failed lap dancing bar attempt. ‘But he seems determined to act like an ostrich and just deal with any consequences if and when they arise.’
‘Ostrich?’ she looks at me quizzically.
‘You know. Burying his head in the sand and letting it all go on around him. What he fails to realize is that adopting that particular position leaves his arse in the air to be kicked.’
We stare at the clouds forming shapes above us for a while.
‘But,’ I continue, ‘aside from actually sitting him down and being rude about Sandra in front of him, which I’m worried will damage our friendship, I don’t know what else to do.’
Charlie sighs. ‘Well you’d better think of something, otherwise it’s going to get to that embarrassing part when the vicar says, “If anyone here knows just cause why these two shouldn’t be married . . . ” and you then have to speak up in front of everyone, not just him.’
She’s too good at this argument stuff, so I decide to change the subject.
‘Speaking of the future, what are your plans for this evening?’ I ask her.
‘Oh,’ she says, looking all serious.
‘You haven’t got a date?’ I splutter, sitting up. ‘Who with?’
Charlie grins. ‘You, you moron. What do you fancy doing?’
I don’t know why I suddenly feel the need to do this, but I take a deep breath and utter those three little words guaranteed to make a woman go weak at the knees.
‘I’ll cook something.’
Charlie quickly manages to hide her shock and surprise, and says that would be lovely.
We head out of the park and jump into a cab, and when I drop her off at her flat I give her my address, and she agrees to come round to my place at eight. When I get home I run upstairs and through my front door, panicking slightly when I notice the time. It’s five o’clock, which gives me only three hours to prepare bot
h the meal and, more importantly, myself.
Fortunately, I keep the place pretty tidy, so I won’t have to waste time running the Hoover round. I love my flat – it’s a decent-sized two-bedder on a nice quiet Chelsea street between the King’s Road and the river. I bought it last year, when Mark advised Nick and me that we ought both to take a large dividend from the company profits, or face giving most of it back to the taxman.
‘Spend it wisely,’ Mark had said. ‘Think about getting a roof over your head.’ Nick had done exactly that, too, but of course his was convertible and perched on top of a red Italian sports car.
It’s taken me a while to get the décor and ambience just right, using the GABI method – Get A Bloke In – for most of the hard work. I’ve kept it simple but classy, with white walls, stripped wooden floors and a few pieces of carefully chosen furniture. Minimalist Chic, I think the style magazines would define it, or ‘Can’t afford a decent three-piece suite, son?’ as my dad would say.
My proudest possession is the stereo system hanging on the wall above the fireplace. I read in one of those specialist magazines, Woofers and Tweeters Weekly or something similar, that good hi-fi among purists is measured by the Low Knob Ratio. That means the fewer switches and buttons the thing has the better it sounds. Well, this one should be a winner – no visible buttons at all. Just a rather phallic chrome remote control that looks more like something from an Ann Summers catalogue.
I don’t entertain at home much, but when I do I usually call up one of those catering services where they make you up a gourmet dinner and deliver it on the morning of the meal. All you then have to do is transfer it to your own dishes (being careful not to leave any of the packaging lying round), follow the relatively simple reheating instructions, and voilà – a perfect meal for two with just a swipe of the credit card. But for Charlie I’m heading into relatively uncharted territory and actually making something from scratch. This means that firstly I have to get hold of a recipe, and I call my mother for help.
‘Ooh, Adam’s cooking,’ she repeats to my father, and I hear him start to laugh in the background. Eventually I manage to get some basic instructions, and make her promise to stay in for the next few hours in case I need to call her for any emergency help. I run down to the local supermarket and buy exactly twice the necessary amount of ingredients – better safe than sorry in case I mess up first time round. I lay them out in sequence on the kitchen table, then realize I don’t even own something as simple as a potato peeler so have to go back out to the shops to get one.
By seven o’clock, with Charlie due to arrive in an hour, I’ve produced what looks quite like the shepherd’s pie my mum makes, and having double checked my instructions, don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. There also appears to be precisely the right amount of ingredients left over to make another one, which seems to bear that out. I just have time to shower, change the duvet cover, open the wine and light a few strategically placed candles before she arrives.
I’ve already selected tonight’s listening, and as I’ve never been able to find an album titled ‘Music to Seduce Girls By’, have pre-programmed the stereo to play the kind of artists I think would naturally feature on such a compilation. The latest (but it could be any, of course) Sade album, some Al Green, Stevie Wonder and, to apply the finishing touches, some smoochy stuff by Dina Carroll. I think twice about Barry White but then decide no, not exactly the most subtle of choices.
I do a final check round the flat, and I’m standing in the hallway, lamely watering the latest in a line of yucca plants that I’ve managed to slowly kill – forget green fingers, mine are more like gangrene fingers – when Charlie rings the buzzer. It’s a minute to eight, and she’s clutching a bottle of wine and a bouquet of what I think are chrysanthemums, which throws me a little as I’ve never been bought flowers before. Sade’s singing in the background as we kiss hello, and I linger a little on her lips, inhaling her perfume. She’s wearing a short black dress that shows her bare shoulders and, I note with pleasure, her nicely defined upper arms. I tell her dinner should be ready shortly and she follows me through to the kitchen, which I’m pleased to note has an authentic cooking aroma. If only you could buy that in bottles.
Charlie walks straight over to the bin and lifts the lid. ‘Just checking!’ she says, grinning at me.
I make a face of mock horror. ‘What do you think of me – that I’d cheat?’
‘I do hope you’re not a cheater, Adam,’ she replies, holding my gaze for longer than I’m comfortable with, until I have to look away. I open the wine she’s brought – red, as I suppose she reasoned we weren’t having fish – pour us both some, and we clink our glasses together. I just about manage to resist the urge to say ‘To us’ or something equally trite.
‘Did you find a decent parking spot?’ I enquire, as Charlie searches through my kitchen cupboards for anything that could conceivably be called a vase.
She shakes her head. ‘No need. I took a cab.’ I’m suddenly pleased that I’ve put a clean duvet cover and sheets on the bed.
Charlie eventually finds a champagne bucket, fills it with water and stands the flowers in it, arranging them neatly on the kitchen table. We move through into the lounge, and she looks around the room.
‘Nice flat,’ she says.
I’m just about to offer the guided tour, which normally takes all of a minute, when the timer rings in the kitchen.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, formally. ‘Please make yourself at home. I’ve just got to attend to the dinner.’ In reality the food’s been ready and on a low heat for the last fifteen minutes, but I want to create the impression that I’m a talented chef giving the finishing touches to the meal.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ she asks.
‘No, that’s okay. You relax in here. Pick some music if you like.’
My cover is nearly blown when I’m in the kitchen removing the shepherd’s pie from the oven, and checking my mum’s recipe for the cooking time for broccoli, when Charlie pops her head round the door. I throw my notes into the oven to hide them, and watch as they ignite silently. Fortunately, I manage to hide this from Charlie by standing in front of the flickering glass.
‘I’ve picked out a couple of CDs but I can’t find the stereo,’ she says.
‘It’s hanging on the wall, over the fireplace.’
‘Okay,’ she says, disappearing back into the lounge.
Two minutes later, she’s back. ‘I’ve found the stereo, but I can’t work out how to put the CD in.’
‘Just wave at it,’ I tell her.
She looks puzzled. ‘Pardon?’
‘Wave at the front and it’ll open.’
‘What, from here?’
‘No, I’ll show you.’ I take her by the hand and, walking her over to the machine, lift her arm up in front of the display and move it slowly across the cover. The glass casing slides to the left, disgorging the Sade CD into Charlie’s fingers.
Charlie nods appreciatively. ‘Smooth operator,’ she says.
I take the CD Charlie’s selected – some opera classics compilation – and slot it into the machine. The mechanism whirrs quietly and Pavarotti leaps into the room.
I tell Charlie to take a seat at the table, which I’ve set so we’re opposite each other. Back in the kitchen I remove the warm plates from the top of the oven – unlike revenge, shepherd’s pie is a dish best not served cold – and dish it up. It kind of collapses when it gets on to the plates, but still looks a little like it’s supposed to, so I bring it through and triumphantly place it on the table in front of her.
‘Shepherd’s pie?’ she asks, her face dropping.
‘Er, yes. Something wrong?’
‘But I’m a vegetarian. Didn’t you remember?’
Oh god. ‘Er, no, er . . .’
Charlie laughs. ‘Only joking. You’re so easy to get. This looks great, and I’m starving.’ She jabs a fork in and takes a mouthful. ‘Mmm, lovely. Mother’s recipe?’ Damn, she’s goo
d.
We make small talk through the meal, and she asks for seconds, so she’s either extremely polite, extremely hungry or she genuinely likes it. I’m marvelling that despite her slim figure she seems to have a healthy appetite, which is a pleasant change from those women who are so obsessed with their weight that all they ever order is a glass of water and a crouton, which they just push round their plate all night and eventually hide under a piece of lettuce.
So far, the evening seems a success, and we’re getting on so well, but for some reason I’m starting to get worried. We haven’t even kissed yet, apart from the odd brief peck, and I suddenly realize what is causing my nerves. Performance anxiety.
Now, I’ve had sex a lot of times. With a lot of different women. That means a considerable number of ‘first nights’ that I’ve managed to negotiate successfully. And yes, there have been a few, well, several occasions where I knew that it was also going to be the last night with that particular girl, and yet I still made sure that I acquitted myself well – ladies first, if you know what I mean – even though I could have thought it might not have mattered. The difference is that I think it matters with Charlie.
In my experience, there are a number of ways you can tackle this first-night dilemma. By far the easiest is for the two of you just to get drunk – that way, much of the awkwardness is removed, or rather disguised. Chances are you won’t remember it too clearly the next morning anyway; even if you do, if it was good then your fuddled brain will recall it being fantastic, and if it was bad you’ll just put it down to the drink. The only problem with that approach is that if it was bad you won’t want to try again just in case it wasn’t the drink but was in fact you. Or her. Or the two of you.
Alternatively, you can try and get her drunk. Not a tactic that I’d condone, of course. On the other hand, you can both stay stone cold sober, but then you have no one to blame but yourselves if things don’t come together.
Much more preferable, in my book, is if the two of you are in that halfway house between sober and drunk – merry, tipsy, call it what you like. This allows for full control of actions by both parties, with the additional benefit that both clothing and inhibitions can be removed with ease.