by Lucy Dawson
Having given my name, I sit down nervously in the waiting room and turn my phone off. Leo actually bought a pay as you go phone because I had his number barred yesterday … I don’t even know what to think about that.
On Monday while I was at the garage collecting the car, I received a text saying:
I dreamt about you last night. Xx
Tuesday morning brought:
Please, you have to let me at least tell you what I have to say. This is important. I’ll go anywhere, anytime. Xx
Wednesday was an overused cliché that once might have made me thrill all over, but now just made me shudder:
I wish I had told you every day you were mine how beautiful you are. Xx
Then an hour after that:
This is killing me. Is that what you want? You want me to feel like this? Xx
I didn’t want him to feel anything in relation to me at all! That was the whole point! Each and every message only reminded me of what I was trying to forget.
Then two hours after that came:
Am so stupid … you DO want me to feel like this don’t you? You need me to prove that I mean what I say, that I do have real, genuine feelings for you. You’re afraid of getting hurt again – that’s why you won’t meet me, why you’re doing this; well I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you. I promise xx
He simply can’t believe that I don’t want him. But I don’t and I have too much to lose to risk ignoring him until he gets bored and goes away. I want – need – him to stop. Which is why I had his number barred yesterday; for all the good it did me.
I run an agitated hand over my forehead, under my fingers are the lumps and bumps of a few greasy spots that have come up over the last few days, in spite of the very dry skin on my chin. I’ve had a much shorter than usual period and a patch of eczema is developing on the back of my left knee. … Maybe I should talk to IT support about changing my number completely?
‘Cara Jones?’ calls a nurse.
If I did that, is there anyone else he could get the new number from? I don’t think there is.
‘Cara Jones?’ she calls again, a little louder.
Oh shit. That’s me. I’m Cara Jones.
I grab my coat and stand up.
‘Cara?’ she repeats pointedly as she gives me a knowing – but not unkind – look that says ‘It’s a good idea to actually remember the false name you give.’ ‘Follow me please.’
It’s all briskly efficient – the nurse runs through a list of frankly terrifying symptoms that I am very relieved to have none of, we briefly discuss the incident in question and then she tells me I can have an initial test for chlamydia and gonorrhoea, which will probably reveal the likelihood of other STDs being present anyway, or the whole shebang; HIV, syphilis and hepatitis, although it’ll take another week or so at least for my body to even start making the antibodies that are detectable in an AIDS test.
‘Is it possible your ex-partner could be bisexual? Would he be likely to attend,’ she lowers her voice gravely, ‘sex parties?’
I almost want to ask her how she manages to say things like that with a straight face. Except none of this is a joking matter.
‘Activities like that would increase your risk.’
It isn’t funny at all in fact … and the honest truth is, I have no idea about the answers to her questions. Not when he was with me, no, but that was, what – five years ago? And it’s then that I realise that actually I don’t know Leo any more, only what he was.
We decide I’ll opt for the chlamydia and gonorrhoea package, the least appealing ‘package’ I’ve ever chosen – including when Joss, Bec and I went to Gran Canaria aged seventeen and it collectively cost us about £250. A urine test and £140 later and I’m back out on the street clutching my mobile tightly. They will be calling through my results within forty-eight hours.
I don’t mind the £140. I don’t mind the urine test, in fact that was a comparatively pleasant surprise given I had been expecting another internal examination. But I do mind within forty-eight hours. Given I thought I’d be finding out straight away, I’m desperately disappointed to have to drag it home with me. I wanted to go back to Dan having put at least some part of all this behind us.
When I step out on to the pavement, it’s raining again, so I reach hurriedly for my umbrella, before squaring my shoulders and starting back towards Bond Street tube, head down, deep in thought.
So deep in thought that at first I don’t take any notice of someone shouting. I’m a stone’s throw from Oxford Street after all and the wind is so blustery it’s enough of a job concentrating on keeping my umbrella from blowing inside out. But then I hear someone call ‘MOLLY!’ and I look up to see, to my astonishment, Leo on the other side of the road, smiling delightedly, holding a smart black umbrella high above his head, dark grey open overcoat billowing behind him as he weaves between a black cab and a bike to get to me.
‘What are you doing here?’ He’s clearly astonished, but seems thrilled to see me, clouds of breath forming in front of his face.
I am completely dumbstruck. I was worried about running into Dan like this, but dismissed it because what would he be doing out of the City and in the West End? It never occurred to me that it would be LEO I’d have to worry about.
‘I’ve just been to a launch at Claridge’s,’ he says, motioning down the road behind him. Then he turns back to me. ‘You look frozen,’ he says, concerned, then reaches out and takes my arm. ‘Come on, let’s go and get you a coffee, get you warmed up.’
‘Don’t!’ I shout, yanking my arm back violently at his touch, to the surprise of a random man and his girlfriend hurrying past me. The girlfriend nudges him and they both turn to give us a curious glance. I suppose we probably do look like any other couple having a row in the street. But we’re not.
Leo looks a bit startled by my reaction too. ‘OK,’ he says slowly. ‘Whatever you want BG, it’s no problem.’
I freeze. BG … Beautiful Girl.
‘Don’t call me that.’
He laughs, as if now I’m just being stupid. ‘Why not? It’s true! Well, perhaps not at this precise moment, but you still look pretty good to me.’
He knows full well why he shouldn’t call me that. Because that’s what he used to call me when we were together. I was BG and he was GB – gorgeous boy. Now, it just sounds horribly twee and embarrassing. I take a step back from him, but he pretends not to notice. ‘I’ve got to ask though, what are you doing here?’ he repeats curiously. ‘You work in Brighton, don’t you?’
Yes, I do. I’m just up in London making sure I haven’t caught a sexually transmitted disease from you.
‘It’s none of your business.’ I’m almost rude, but it doesn’t faze him in the slightest, if anything it only spurs him on.
‘Fine,’ he says lightly. ‘Be like that then, but at least let me take you somewhere decent to wait this out,’ he motions up at the swollen, dark sky as if he needs to protect me from impending threat. ‘We can have a coffee and you can tell me how sorry you are for barring my number.’
Even I’m astonished by his brazen lack of shame. ‘I did it because I don’t want you to call me, or text me.’ I can hear the mounting frustration in my own voice. ‘And I’m really confused by what part of that you don’t understand. How many times do I have to tell you I’m married!’
He snorts dismissively and lightly shakes his head. ‘So you keep saying. Come on, you still haven’t heard what I have to tell you.’ He takes a step away as if he fully expects me to just follow him …
… but I resolutely stay fixed to the spot. ‘I don’t want to see you again.’
He frowns. ‘But I want—’
‘What?’ I explode. ‘What is it you want, Leo? Because it’s always about you isn’t it? What YOU need, what YOU have to talk to me about. Tell me, what do you want?’
‘You,’ he says flatly. ‘I want you.’
‘No you don’t!’ I take a step towards him in exasperatio
n. ‘You think you do, but you don’t.’
‘Don’t patronise me!’ He is suddenly angry, and I step back again quickly. ‘I do want you,’ he insists stubbornly. ‘You can’t tell me how I feel.’
I shake my head in disbelief and then I realise that actually, I don’t have to stand there and listen to this. Not any more. I turn on my heels and begin to walk smartly away from him.
‘I love you!’
The words echo up the street after me and shocked, I stop and am unable to prevent myself from half turning back to face him.
We just stand there, looking at each other. Everything else keeps moving around us, cars, people impatiently navigating the two immobile idiots in the street. He doesn’t break my gaze.
But I say nothing, I just turn and hasten away from him as fast as I can.
Chapter Seventeen
He can’t seriously think that is going to change everything?
‘Hello?’
Dan’s voice cuts into my thoughts and I make an effort to drag myself back to our sitting room.
‘I said you’re quiet,’ Dan repeats patiently. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m just tired.’ I scratch my nose and wriggle down a little deeper into the sofa as I stare at the TV. He keeps looking at me steadily.
‘And a bit worried about work,’ I add. ‘No one’s placing any orders at the moment. We’ve got an emergency meeting tomorrow.’
That’s actually true. Antony emailed me, apologising for disturbing me on a day off, but explaining that he had no choice, the whole division are required to be present, which has the distinct whiff of redundancies about it.
‘What sort of emergency meeting? A “man the boats” sort of meeting?’
‘I think it might be,’ I admit.
Dan sighs, then reaches out and rubs my leg consolingly. ‘Well, if it happens, it happens,’ he says pragmatically. ‘We’ll manage, don’t worry. It’s all going to be fine,’ he looks at me sincerely and I’ve honestly never wanted to believe anything more in my life.
Before we go to bed, I give my emails one last check before shutting everything down. Dan comes in to find me smiling at an amusing Richard Branson one Pearce has sent me.
‘What’s so funny?’ he smiles in the doorway.
‘Something from Pearce,’ I’m about to show it to him when I remember just in the nick of time what Pearce’s message says above the attachment:
This made me laugh. Hope you had a nice day off. Whatcha get up too? See you tomorrow for doom day. P xxx
Dan of course doesn’t know I’ve taken a day’s holiday, so I have to quickly close the document.
‘Oh,’ he says, disappointed. ‘Can’t I see?’
‘I’ve shut it down now. I’ll show you tomorrow,’ I say and, before he can argue, I stand up and switch the light off.
In bed, he starts trying to kiss me while I’m reading my book.
‘That’s nice.’ I reach my hand behind me to stroke his neck, then twist to look at him. I love him so much. He kisses my mouth and then begins to slide his hand up my leg. I know what that means and I really, really wish I could, but … I half smile at him apologetically. ‘I can’t Dan, not yet.’
He groans. ‘Still? Really?’
I nod – feeling utterly ashamed of myself. Why couldn’t they have just given me the test results today? Was that really too much to ask?
‘OK,’ he smiles at me ruefully, which makes me feel even worse. ‘Another cold shower for me in the morning!’
I turn away and start to try and read again, but I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is Leo stood there in the street holding his umbrella and shouting ‘I love you!’
Five years after we’ve separated he tells me the one thing I cajoled, pleaded and begged him to say while we were together. I can still remember the first time I pathetic ally reduced myself to asking him outright if he loved me – and how it felt when he said evasively, after a pause, ‘define love’.
I let my book fall from my hands in disgust and try to get comfy. I suppose it’s fair to argue I should have realised if you have to ask someone that question repeatedly, the answer is probably no, they don’t. I know Leo didn’t love me – and that’s OK, no law says he had to, and of course, he turned out not to be right for me anyway …
Dan, having heard my book drop to the floor, stretches a hand out and turns the light off. Then he reaches out for me in the dark, pulls me into his arms and kisses my neck again. ‘Love you Moll.’
… because that’s how easy it is, when it’s real. It’s not a struggle, or a painful battle of wills. It’s just obviously there. I really don’t think Leo has actually experienced what love is, he can’t have, and I’m sad for him for that. But I’m not going to let him ruin what I know I have with Dan, any more than he – and I – have already.
It was bad enough when I saw him running towards me earlier … He seemed genuinely amazed to see me, but … I mean, what were the chances of that happening?
Actually, what are the chances of that?
I haven’t seen him for years … and yet I just bump into him a week after our disastrous night, when he’s been texting me repeatedly asking to meet? I stare at the wall in front of me. Really?
But then I don’t see how he could possibly have had any idea that I was going to be there. No one except Joss knew about that appointment, and I booked it in a false name. There’s no way he could have known.
It can’t have been fate – surely? The prospect of that really is terrifying.
By the time I’m on my way to the emergency work meeting the following afternoon I’ve still heard nothing from the clinic, and am becoming seriously agitated. What if I still haven’t heard by the end of the day? Will they only let me know within working hours? That’ll make it Monday! How am I supposed to explain that to Dan? I’ve also realised that I can’t do anything about changing my phone number until I’ve got the results back through, which means every time my phone goes, I’m torn between leaping on it to see if it’s the results, or ignoring it in case it’s Leo again.
Of course it bleeps away unhelpfully on the passenger seat pretty much constantly for the whole journey with nothing but a succession of false starts. Dan to say he is going to take me out to dinner tonight and I’m not to worry, whatever happens at the meeting we’ll deal with it together – Mum telling me to call her back, she hasn’t heard from me since Sunday, am I OK? Abi to check I am still on for Saturday’s baby shower – which I’ve forgotten about completely – Joss to see if I’ve had the all-clear … But there is still no actual call by the time I arrive at the roadside hotel.
In keeping with the subject matter of the meeting ahead, it’s even more of a craphole venue than usual. The conference room is buried right at the back of the building, down slightly claustrophobic halls carpeted in shiny red nylon; the static crackles under the soles of my boots. The whole place smells faintly of stale chips; through the emergency exit at the end of the hall I can just glimpse the bins below the kitchen vent, which is pumping clouds of greasy steam up into the dour sky.
Peering through the glass panel in the door I can see the meeting hasn’t started but pretty much everyone is here. I keep my eyes to the ground as I slip into the room and then into the seat Pearce has saved for me. Sandra leans over quickly and says in a low voice, ‘Do you know anything?’ I shake my head and she sits back worriedly, too preoccupied to bother with being a bitch today.
Pearce says nothing; unsurprisingly even he is quiet. Everyone looks terrified and sits up a little straighter in anticipation when Antony comes in. He puts his things down on the table and says simply, ‘You will I’m sure be aware of the information that has appeared in the press recently regarding MediComma. Like many companies, the economic situation continues to have a very real effect on us. It has been considered prudent that we now adopt a new approach and create a New MediComma world that allows us to revise the shape of the company.’ He says it all with no
conviction whatsoever, as if he’s been given a press release to read, which he probably has.
Pearce speaks up. ‘So does that mean if the new “shape” is – I don’t know – a circle, some of us are going to be left outside it?’
Antony gives him a direct look. ‘MediComma unfortunately can’t rule out redundancies at this stage.’
A ripple of fear courses through the room – Kirk looks like he’s going to cry – and of course it’s right at that moment that my bloody mobile starts to light up with ‘number withheld’. Sod’s law it’s the clinic. I am just about to leave it, let it go to voicemail, when I realise they won’t leave a message for me because my voicemail says I’m Molly Greene … not Cara Jones. Suppose I can’t get them back? There’s no way I can wait until Monday, no way. I stand up, and say ‘Hello?’ to everyone’s incredulous stares, Antony included. I ignore them all, push my chair back and walk out of the room.
Shutting the door behind me I say very quietly, ‘Yes, this is Cara Jones.’
I look back through the glass panel in the door. Pearce is looking at me curiously.
‘Could you say that again?’ I say faintly.
The broad smile of relief all over my face when I come back into the room – despite my best efforts to hide it – is, of course, wholly inappropriate under the circumstances. Sandra gives me a Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells look and shakes her head as I sit back down. Even Antony shoots me a look of quiet disbelief.
Well, so be it. I had to find out. Jobs are one thing … I’m not losing my marriage. Not for anything.
‘So the formal announcement will be in tomorrow’s press stating that we are restructuring and may be consider ing voluntary redundancies as a first stage but that we will be doing our best to avoid compulsory measures as we move into 2010,’ Antony concludes. ‘Does anyone have any questions?’
‘I do. This wouldn’t be one of those bad practise exercises would it?’ Pearce says. ‘You know, using the recession as an excuse for making employees paranoid, so they all work harder and accept whatever terms are thrown at them because they’re just glad to keep their jobs?’