“No, seriously,” continues Lily. “He’s got that salt and pepper hair, big strong arms thing going on. I’m hot for that now, skinny girl-boys are very last year, don’t you know? Where would I find Joel version 2.0? I’m thinking chopping wood or shearing sheep.”
I laugh. “Nothing could be further from the truth. He’s the least practical or outdoorsy person I’ve ever met. He grew up in London and was amazed to find that cows lived in fields rather than in city farms. He thinks that to light a fire, you just have to switch on the gas.”
“You know what I mean.” Lily is undeterred. “He looks like he would survive in the event of a global meltdown. And that’s what really matters. How did you two get together?”
“I hate to tell you this, but we didn’t meet while white-water rafting in the Amazon. We met at work.”
Lily looks around at the fey creatures populating the office and winces. “And?”
“He started out as a runner, inappropriately since he never runs anywhere, and there weren’t many straight men in our office and, well, we got together.”
“Details, I want details. I love ‘how we met’ stories.”
“OK. You know my friend Mitzi? She’s come in and met me for lunch a couple of times, used to work in telly.”
“Blonde, thin, rich Mitzi with all the children. Botox.”
“Why does everyone know she’s had Botox but me? Is it because you read all those magazines where they put big red rings around any surgery celebs have had?”
“Important sociological documents, those magazines,” she says. “Go on, tell me about Mitzi and your man.”
“She was working in the same place as Joel and I. She fancied him so I assumed, we all assumed, that nobody else would get a look-in. In those days, Mitzi pretty much creamed off anyone remotely attractive—the presenters, the execs, the married man who owned the company.” It was an immutable law of nature that Mitzi was the attractive one. Long of leg but not too tall, slim but not skinny, blonde yet with a nose just big enough and a jaw just strong enough to save her from blandness. Her looks alone were killer, but it was also the way she carried them. Her mane naturally flicked, her hips swayed, her eyes had a slight glaze to them which made men believe she was permanently thinking about sex. The rest of us accepted her supremacy without really objecting to the presumption. It would have been like a planet objecting to having to rotate around the sun. “I wasn’t sure I liked him that much anyway. I remember thinking he was a bit porky,” I continue to Lily. “Mitzi said he wasn’t fat, he had ‘generous girth’ and that it showed he loved food and drink and thus life and thus sex.”
“So she copped off with him first.”
“No, Joel didn’t fancy her back.” It was that simple, that’s what I tell myself. But for Mitzi and the rest of us in her wake, it didn’t seem like a credible explanation. It was as if the earth had stopped spinning on its axis. I expected frogs to fall from the sky and plagues of locusts to attack.
“And he fancied you?”
“Yes.” I smile to relive my happiest triumph, its luster undimmed by what has happened since. “It’s a bit more complicated than just that, or at least it seemed so at the time.”
“Go on, tell me. Did bitchy Mitzi stand in your way?”
“No, no, not really. Sort of. Not on purpose, I don’t think. She kind of didn’t tell me that Joel fancied me, but I think that was because she’d misunderstood what he was saying and had assumed I wasn’t his type. I think. I’m not sure I ever really got to the bottom of who said what and what happened myself. Anyway, Joel and I got together and that was all that mattered at the time.”
That was all that mattered for years afterward. If I ever had a down moment or couldn’t get to sleep, I’d just go over Joel’s and my “how we got together” story and I’d tingle. It became what a friend of mine calls your “default thought,” which has now been replaced by the moment Rufus first smiled or when I lay in the hospital clutching the extraordinarily beautiful newborn Gabe and Rufus gently stroked his soft skull.
The fact that I’d never really questioned Mitzi’s role in us getting together, or more possibly her role in us almost not getting together, was irrelevant. I didn’t want to have it out with her back then, partly because I was on such a wave of love that I couldn’t accommodate the necessary amount of logic or bad feeling, and partly, less edifyingly, I wanted her around to witness my happiness.
“You know what, Lily?” I say. “There’s no interesting intrigue with me and Joel. One office, two people, a lot of alcohol—isn’t that how everyone gets together?”
That made it sound simple. The truth is more complicated but so much sweeter. Our “how we met” story has all the misunderstandings and confusions of a Hardy novel without the rural idyll or Shakespeare without the twins and cross-dressing. Or perhaps it was merely a bad rom-com, depending on your cultural reference point. At the time, it was a messy, non-linear business, but the years of our relationship have honed a narrative out of it. After we got together, we loved to swap our perspectives, to recount our history to one another once again, all the while finessing it, adding adorable touches, trying to give it a perfect three-act structure.
How it began. Joel walked into the office and saw me. I was putting up a shelf, since the two-bit production company I worked for didn’t seem able to stretch to refurbishment and I was the most practical person there. I was standing on a desk, showing my handiness with a spirit level and power drill. I got down to say hello and gave my drill a little whirr for extra emphasis. I was flushed with exertion. Joel said later, when we were in bed together, “That slight sheen of sweat and the red in your cheeks, I knew exactly what you’d look like post-coitally. And I was right.” He claims he fell in love with me then and there. But there are, in fact, many “And that’s when I knew I was in love” moments from Joel: when I ordered a pint of Guinness; when he found out I’d actually read one of Ursula’s books; when he saw that I could go on holiday with hand luggage only.
Despite Joel’s nascent paunch and permanent five-o’clock shadow, the girls in the office fell about and acted like they were builders on a construction site and he was a big-busted blonde, just about managing to stop short of wolf-whistling. I myself find it hard to see now, but am occasionally reminded when I witness Joel’s continuing effect on women. It’s something to do with the contrast between the way he looks and the way he acts. He was, is, very masculine-looking, not in a waxed Adonis way, but in his big hairiness. Yet he has a real touchy-feely, talk-about-my-emotions personality. “How are you?” he’d ask, not as a pleasantry, but because he really, really wanted to know and not just about your physical health, but about how you were feeling—no, I mean how you’re really feeling, tell me, tell me everything. He could say camp things like “Ooh, girlfriend, get you in your Missoni,” but in that deep, chocolate-brown voice of his, like James Mason’s. He could talk about the nuances of heel height, all the while wearing the same old scuffed-out shoes. He is a man of political engagement and principles, yet who likes reading women’s magazines and can talk about celebrity couples and the names they’ve given their offspring.
“H.O.T., hot,” said Mitzi after a couple of days, and the other girls hid their disappointment that a red dot had appeared on the best painting in the gallery.
“It’s like he really understands women,” she said after she’d managed to smuggle him out of the office for a coffee one morning.
“Watch this space,” she said after she’d lured him out for a drink after work.
“He’s gay,” she announced after their fourth lunch break.
“Really?” I asked. I could have sworn that he’d been flirting with me, but I later found out that everyone felt the same way. He’s very good on eye contact, Joel, like his second born. “Did he tell you?”
“Hmm,” Mitzi said. “He’s been to see Chicago twice. At the theater.”
“But did he do that thing that gay men do, when they make sure th
ey incorporate it into conversation at the earliest opportunity, you know, mention ‘my boyfriend’ or refer to ‘us gay men’ or something like that?”
“He says his perfect Sunday would consist of going to the farmers’ market to buy some obscure cheeses before having lunch with his mother.”
“Ah, that’s nice. Did you know his mother is Ursula Tennant, the feminist writer? Still, that’s not exactly conclusive.”
“He knows the difference between merino and cashmere.”
“Don’t you think your definition of heterosexuality needs broadening, Mitzi? He doesn’t look very gay.”
“Now who’s got a narrow definition of what gay men are like? He’s what they call a bear. Very popular these days, all my gay friends want one. Honestly, Mary, do you think I don’t know if someone’s gay or not?”
By the end of the day, all the women in the office had muttered one or all of the following phrases: “What a shame,” “All the best ones are,” or “I knew he was too good to be true.” He was still sought out, but now only for his wise counsel on shopping and haircuts.
“Didn’t you realize that’s what everyone thought?” I asked Joel some time after we’d got together. “The fact that all these girls kept on telling you how great you were to talk to and what a shame you were off limits.”
“I just thought they all knew that I only had eyes for you.”
“But Karen even asked you how to do the perfect blow job.”
“I assumed she was asking me from the point of view of a recipient rather than as a recipient and donor.”
Mitzi and he continued going on their cozy lunches and Mitzi continued to fund us with tales of his man-loving proclivities. His being gay gave me the freedom to admit to myself that I had joined the rest in finding him attractive. It felt so unoriginal of me, especially coming to the Joel fan club so late when I had always prided myself on being into bands long before their first hit. The fact that he was gay spared me from entering and losing the competition with Mitzi. It was comfortingly adolescent to have a crush on a gay man. My youthful obsession with George Michael had continued long after he came out; in fact, the knowledge of his unavailability to all women had almost strengthened my love for him. Of course, Joel was irritating in a way that George Michael never had been, so arrogant and entitled, waltzing around the office and saying things like “My godfather, the head of commissioning at Channel 4” and “When I went to school in California.” Freed from trying to impress him, I’d mock him for these comments, which he’d take in remarkable good humor. I enjoyed the little I saw of him, especially now that I knew he was not to be claimed by Mitzi. Brotherless and educated at a girls’ school, I tended to react to straight men with either aggression or awkwardness.
“Do you know,” he said to me one morning as we had coincided, yet again, at the kettle, “my best friend at school and I had a thing for the Pre-Raphaelites? We called ourselves The Brotherhood and used to hang around the nineteenth-century bit of the National Gallery and at the V & A, stroking the William Morris wallpaper.”
“Blimey,” I said. “How old were you?”
“First year of senior school, you know, thirteen.” I realized then that he’d gone to the sort of expensive school that starts at thirteen, not eleven. As if it wasn’t obvious by the fact that he had been a boy with a thing for the Pre-Raphaelites.
“I think I was into Wham! and buying hair accessories at the time,” I said. “But you know, Millais versus a hair grip with a butterfly on it, same thing really.” He laughed. I loved to make him laugh.
“Somewhere at my mother’s house, I’ve still got a box filled with all the postcards, with Blu-Tack on the back.”
“And what became of The Brotherhood? Your one?”
“It’s really quite sad. Tom, my friend, wanted to become an artist, but got into crack at art college. I don’t know what he’s doing now. I rather lost touch with him when I got into my band, and all that I have left of The Brotherhood is the postcards and a penchant for redheads.”
I blushed and couldn’t stop myself running my hands through my hair. He’s gay, obviously, I told myself. Around where I grew up, straight teenage boys did not get a thing for Victorian painters.
I liked these conversations. They seemed to transcend the usual trivia and “What did you do last night?”s. He was the only person who’d ask you what you were reading rather than what you were watching. P. G. Wodehouse, I replied one day, and he became very excited.
“That’s amazing,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl who’s read P. G. Wodehouse.”
I shrugged and said, “They’re all too busy reading Nancy Mitford instead. Fools.”
“I wouldn’t say that, I have a bit of a weakness for her, too. And some of her sisters.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who’s read Nancy Mitford.”
“There you go,” he said. “The man who reads Mitford and the woman who reads Wodehouse. A match made in heaven. We could go on holiday and only have to pack half the number of books.”
This easy banter ended one Monday morning.
“Hi, Joel,” I said brightly.
“Oh, hello,” he said and walked off. I could have sworn it was a snub.
Later I bumped into him in the line at the sandwich shop. “Did you have a good weekend?” I do this when I fancy someone, I sound like somebody’s mother. I was worried that any minute now, I was going to start asking him what A levels he’d done.
“Fantastic. In fact, I think I’m still hungover. Two of your very best bacon sandwiches, please.” Joel, as I subsequently discovered, has the zeal for flesh that only a former vegetarian can muster.
“What were you doing?”
He looked quizzical. “I was hosting the party. You know, at my mom’s place. She’s on a book tour in the States.”
“A party?” I tried to keep my voice bright. Maybe it was some sort of man-only thing. “Did you get lots of people turning up?”
“Yeah, loads.”
Oh. “That’s great.” I was thinking, it’s quite rude of him to be boasting about his well-attended banging bloody brilliant party to someone who wasn’t invited. I felt my cheeks burn with indignation. I could tell that he had noticed my reddening and an unreadable expression flashed across his face before he quickly escaped, clutching his calorific cargo.
“Did you go to Joel’s party?” I asked Mitzi on returning to my desk.
“Yes. Shame you weren’t there. He didn’t want to invite everyone from the office. It was no big deal.”
“Fair enough.” Arse. Stupid, posh boy, metropolitan, everything-on-a-plate, unfairly promoted arse. That was that, I decided. I wasn’t going to be civil to him anymore.
I maintained my froideur for a whole week. Coolness does not come easily to me and inside I was ablaze. These days I don’t give a monkey’s whether or not I’m invited to somebody’s party, though I do get furious on behalf of my children. Only last week, Rufus wasn’t invited to Flynn’s sixth, despite the fact that they sit at the same reading table. I still entertain fantasies of pushing the little tyke off his scooter in retaliation.
The following Monday, about ten of us were sitting in an ideas meeting. Joel, despite his lowly position, was of course allowed to attend due to his family connections to the managing director.
“It’s been done before,” I said to the first of Joel’s pitches.
“That’s one of those formats that’s expensive to produce yet makes for cheap viewing,” I said of the second.
“Meh,” was all I managed for the third.
I went into the tiny kitchen soon afterward to find myself trapped in there with him. I couldn’t very well walk out, but the kettle seemed to take an age to boil. He’s gay, he’s gay, he’s gay, I told myself. He’s horrible, too. He’s gay and he’s horrible. In fact, he’s gay and horrible and he doesn’t even like you enough to invite you to his “loads of mates” party. And he’s fat. I felt my whole body prick
le with heat. I thought I might be sick. “How do you take your tea?” How do you “take” your tea? I seemed to have landed in a costume drama all of a sudden. Soon I’d be asking him how he found the weather at this time of year and tell him that I myself found it most agreeable. The more flustered I felt, the more amused he seemed to be. He later told me that amusement is his defensive position, just as anger is mine.
“Milk, one sugar,” he said.
We both went for the same mug, our hands touching. It could have been the moment when we looked into each other’s eyes and saw the truth, but instead I reached quickly for the chipped one featuring a woman in a bikini that came off when you put hot liquids into it.
We both stared at the still non-boiling kettle. “Have you got a problem with me?” he asked in a way that suggested nobody had ever had a problem with him before.
“No.” I pulled a face to try to emphasize my rebuttal. Damn my flushing cheeks once more. “Sorry, I don’t know where you might have got that idea.”
“In there. In the meeting—you kept shooting down my ideas.”
The kettle finally boiled and I watched him put the sugar in his tea. Even now I remember the little circle of granules that was left on the peeling vinyl of the kitchen worktop. “Maybe they weren’t very good.”
“True,” he said. “Well. I’ll be seeing you.”
Not if I see you first, I thought, as then I’ll be diving into the toilets to avoid another awkward conversation like the one we’ve just had.
I looked for assurance from Mitzi, who told me stiffly that she had never heard him say anything negative about me. “Why do you care?”
I successfully avoided Joel until a post-work booze-up in the pub a few weeks later. There, I tried to ignore his presence but found myself aware of whom he was sitting next to and the conversations he was having. The seating would shuffle as someone got up to get a round in, but I never seemed to get any nearer to him—he was like some iconic skyscraper that is visible from all parts of the city but you can never seem to actually reach it. Much drink was drunk, a good proportion of it by me. Our group got larger and louder, irritating to the rest of the pub, but convinced of its own glamour and hilarity. It was back in the days when we smoked and were allowed to, and I got up to buy another packet. The cigarette machine was in a grubby corridor outside the men’s toilets, which was steeped with the ammonia stench of alleyways. For years afterward, I used to get a little thrill of remembrance when I smelled concentrated male urine. Now I get a surge of irritation and flush it away.
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