Rubber Gloves or Jimmy Choos?

by Faith Bleasdale

  I insisted on finding Katie to say goodbye and we left.

  We got a cab to his place, which was somewhere in north London, I wasn’t exactly sure. Philip was a bit fidgety in the cab. He kept clanking his teeth, smiling and touching his hands. I thought he might be nervous until I remembered what he’d been putting up his nose. I smiled back at him. Despite the alcohol I felt nervous. Philip was so unlike the men I’d met before. He was … well, I guess he was more cosmopolitan. When we reached his flat we got out of the taxi. ‘Eleven pounds forty,’ the driver said.

  Philip searched his pockets. ‘Ruth, I don’t seem to have any cash.’

  As he bounded to his front door I pulled the money out of my purse. Great. This could not be the man of my dreams. I followed him through the door, which at least he held open for me, then walked up a hundred stairs until we reached his flat.

  As I followed him in I was struck by how small it was. And messy, unbelievably messy. We walked into his lounge, which was tiny and filled with junk. He sat down on his sofa – well, I think it was a sofa but I couldn’t tell: it looked more like a rubbish tip. Oh, well, I sat on top of the tip. Philip grabbed a mirror and started lining up his cocaine. He snorted. I declined again. He was an obvious expert, I was an obvious square. After he’d finished he lit two cigarettes, passed me one – well, at least he had lit it for me – and started talking. And talking.

  He told me his whole life story. How as a boy he’d eaten dirt, or worms, how he’d grown up in London or Essex, or gone to college in one or the other, how he was a Goth, a punk and a hippie in that order. How he’d dabbled with both men and women and decided he liked women. And while he talked, I smoked. I felt a little out of my depth, or a lot, and I grabbed hold of a pile of rubbish to steady myself. This was going to be a one-night stand, a long one-night stand. Just as I thought I must be in the twilight zone he kissed me again and I remembered why I was here.

  The kiss was long, slow, exploratory, damn gorgeous. When it ended I felt as if the breath had been knocked out of me. My stomach was in tatters. He moved closer to me, I moved closer to him, I tried not to think about what I was sitting on and whether it would collapse. We kissed again and I was so turned on. I pulled at his T-shirt as he removed my top. I kissed his nipples and he kissed my neck. Then he stopped and he started talking again.

  I groaned inwardly, as did my libido, and he gave me yet another cigarette. This time he took me through his love-life history. From his first kiss with a girl named Claire aged five, to him losing his virginity with his cousin aged fourteen, to his first real love and everyone else until now. And there was a lot. Then eventually he kissed me again and I put my whole self into it to ensure he didn’t start talking again. Ever. The tactic was simple. I pushed my breasts into his mouth, I wiggled out of my trousers. I pulled him out of his and started licking his legs until I reached his small but adequate penis. I took it into my mouth and basked in his pleasure. He moaned sexily, and I licked and teased until he was about to come and I pulled away. He looked at me with his eyes half closed and I kissed him again.

  ‘Condom,’ I breathed at him, and miraculously he pulled one out from beneath the rubbish tip. He put it on, turned me over and entered me from behind. I couldn’t help but yelp loudly. This was the best I’d felt in ages. He moved back and forth, his hands gripping my hips, pushing and pulling me with him. ‘Oh, yes, Philip, yes, yes, yes.’ I couldn’t help myself. This was heaven. It was almost worth the hours of chat I’d had to endure. He worked harder and harder and I was on the brink of orgasm, real-life orgasm. ‘Philip, Philip, Philip,’ I screamed, then I came. A few seconds later Philip joined me and he collapsed on top of me. Me and the rubbish tip. After another cigarette, during which he remained unusually quiet, I asked to go to bed. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, smiling at the memory of that orgasm. And, boy, it was good.

  When I awoke, Philip was sprawled across the small double bed. I lay there basking in the feeling of last night until I could no longer feel my legs. I got up and found the bathroom – not hard in such a small place – but on seeing the state of the shower and the towels I settled on splashing myself with cold water. Once I had located my clothes, marvelling at how much worse the flat looked in daylight, I woke Philip. He groaned as he opened his eyes. ‘What?’ he mumbled.

  ‘I’m going, Philip. Thanks for a lovely evening.’

  ‘Bye,’ he said, which I took as acceptance of the situation. I kissed his hair, because that was the only part of his body still available to me, and I left.

  I realised that this had been a traditional one-night stand, which saddened me a bit. I mean, I’d been hoping he’d ask for my phone number and that I’d see him again, but still I was almost proud of myself: I had managed to sleep with a very nice man without losing my memory, my knickers, my job, or being sick. It was a shame that I wouldn’t see him again, but I felt it was a step in the right direction. And, of course, he was a drug addict. I smiled all the way home. Of course, I felt slightly cheap but I’d had fun and, on the whole, I had colour in my cheeks and a spring in my step. Of course I did. I’d just been laid.

  When I got home, everyone was waiting to question me on what had happened last night. Normally I share everything with my friends and they with me. But, for some reason, last night felt like a step forward in changing my life. I felt that I might now be able to enjoy myself again, things were moving. I didn’t feel ready to share, not just yet. I told them I’d had a fab time and that I had stayed at Katie’s. They looked disappointed at no disaster story, but I thought they’d get over it.

  That afternoon Thomas came over, saying he had a crisis. We all lay in wait: nothing like a good crisis to brighten up a Sunday afternoon, especially if it’s not yours for once. He sat down, looking forlorn, so Sophie ran to make him tea, Sarah gave him a biscuit, Jess grinned at him like a vulture and I held his hand.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jess said, getting down to business.

  ‘It’s Andrea, this girl I’m dating. She’s giving me the total run-around, not returning my calls and I’m calling a lot. When we do go out we have a fantastic time, but in between it’s hell. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ I said. Thomas looked more horrified than ever.

  ‘Perhaps you should be a bit cooler. Play hard to get, don’t call her,’ Jess suggested.

  ‘But if I don’t call I’ll never see her and I really like her.’

  ‘She sounds like most men,’ Sarah said.

  Thomas looked indignant. ‘I’d never treat a woman like that.’

  ‘What about that sweet girl at university – Catherine? You slept with her and then whenever you saw her you’d hide and she knew because you were so obvious about avoiding her,’ I reminded him.

  ‘OK, but that’s the only time I was a bit mean.’

  ‘And gutless. What about Annie, the girl from your law course? You told us you were in love with her, then you took her out, called her, took her out, slept with her and never called her again. And you kept your answer phone on constantly so you never had to take her calls,’ Jess said.

  ‘But she was really clingy. I wouldn’t do that normally but she made me feel claustrophobic.’

  ‘Thomas, you’re such a liar. Remember last month? You really liked some girl you met at the Hanover Grand. You spent all night pursuing her, ages getting her number, you took her out, slept with her, told us you didn’t want a relationship and never called her,’ Sarah added.

  ‘I was confused.’

  ‘More like you were running out of excuses. Face it, babe, you’ve been treating women really badly and the worst thing is you’re dishonest about it. You’re gutless, selfish and a complete bastard. Now you have the cheek to complain when someone does the same to you.’ Jess wasn’t about to let Thomas get away with anything. If he was looking for sympathy, he’d come to the wrong place.

  ‘Yeah, but I really like Andrea, and I promise I’ll never trea
t anyone like that again as long as she stops avoiding me. I really do like her.’

  ‘Only because you can’t have her,’ I suggested. ‘Fancy a pint?’

  Thomas soon forgot about his love problems and got drunk. He stared at Sophie lovingly all evening and crashed out on our sofa. Poor Thomas, he’s bad for women and I don’t condone his behaviour, but he is my friend, after all, and puts up with my habits, so I guess it’s only fair that I do the same for him.

  For the first time ever I didn’t shudder at the thought of going to work on Monday. I had badly wanted to talk to Katie on Sunday and swap stories, but her answer phone was on and, although I left a message, she didn’t call me back. I was looking forward to seeing her.

  In my second week I had two missions. The first was to make Katie my friend, the second was to find out what Fulhurst Properties did. Katie and I sat outside the two offices of Charles and Tom. We were separated from the rest of the office by a glass partition. The rest of the office consisted of a receptionist, the office manager (pencil-up-her-bum Jenny), ten property consultants and two secretaries. The only information I could get was that the property consultants were running the show. Tom and Charles never seemed to do any work.

  I began to think that maybe this was just a front for a crack house, or gun-smuggling or something really bad. I looked for clues, but found nothing, not one bit of crack or any guns. I was getting more convinced that something was going on, but then one of the property consultants came to see Tom and Charles and told me they’d just struck gold on a bunch of property that had doubled in price, so it might have just been property.

  I started work at half past nine. The one boss whose turn it was to come to the office that day would arrive around half past ten. I’d open the mail and I would answer the phone occasionally. When my boss arrived, if my boss arrived, I’d make him coffee. We’d go through the mail and put made-up appointments in his diary. He’d make loads of phone calls and then at lunchtime he’d leave, saying he had a business lunch, and he’d be gone for the day. Hardly anyone ever called for him.

  It might sound boring, but it wasn’t. I had Katie, and we chatted most days. Although she wasn’t exactly calling me her best friend, I felt she was warming to me, probably because as we had so much time she knew more about me than she did about anyone else. I thought I could stay in this job until I got married.

  Jenny hated that Katie and I had fun. She was always poking her nose in and trying to give us work, which Katie would refuse. ‘If you want us to do any work for you, you have to get Tom or Charles to give it to us.’ This put Jenny in a horrible mood and she sent a memo to the brothers saying that they didn’t need two PAs. Torn – it was his turn in the office – asked me to reply. I showed him what I’d written. It read: ‘How dare you suggest that people as important as us do not need a PA each? We have a very complicated and confidential business, and therefore require people we can rely on. If you are so desperate to cut costs, get rid of one of the other secretaries.’ Tom laughed, said, ‘Quite right, on the ball,’ and signed it, I quite liked Tom, although he was obviously mad.

  Jenny was fuming. She came in to us waving my memo. ‘I was trying to do them a favour. One of you could do this job quite easily.’

  Katie shook her head, ‘I’m afraid that Tom is quite right. We do a lot of confidential work here and you don’t even know about it, because that’s how good we are at keeping quiet. One of us would definitely not be able to cope.’

  Jenny narrowed her eyes. ‘What kind of confidential work?’

  ‘We can’t tell you that. We’ve taken an oath.’

  Jenny looked distraught and slunk off to shout at the other secretaries.

  Over the next week I continued to try to build a friendship with Katie. I had fallen in love with her instantly. This was what I knew about her: she had no career aspirations; she had a couple of tattoos and a navel ring; she had the hugest social life, she knew loads of people, but according to her she didn’t have any friends.

  My friends immediately thought she would be a bad influence, but she wasn’t. She was a good influence: she was going to teach me how to live again. She understood about Ben – she’d been in love once, although she didn’t go into detail. She didn’t care about conventions, she was just herself: a good-time girl having a good time. My new plan was for me to become a good-time girl too. I felt almost happy for the first time in ages. Almost, but not quite.

  Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, my first Valentine’s Day without Ben. Valentine’s Day is the day for lovers, so as I didn’t have a lover I planned to spend it lamenting lost love. I’d been good lately so I felt I deserved a relapse. I was not the only one upset. Sophie was miserable, because she hated being alone, and although she’d had plenty of offers she hadn’t met anyone since the Porsche. Sarah was still firmly celibate, didn’t believe in Valentine’s Day, and Jess was manless. As she had no certainty of cards coming her way she became very revolutionary: she said it was a load of bollocks, and St Valentine was a villain or unpopular or something, and a card being unsigned just added to die confusion in dating we already had to endure, and it was evil to dent people’s self-esteem when they didn’t get any cards, and the whole day should be made illegal. I agreed.

  Thomas was the only one of us looking forward to Valentine’s Day. He had given up on the elusive Andrea and found a nice girl who followed him around. It was the early stages and he asked us what he should get her. Jess told him not to bother, Sophie started crying, Sarah said he should get something useful because flowers die and she couldn’t see the point in giving someone something that died, and I wondered how anyone could have a relationship and spend any amount of time with us, so I took control. ‘Send her flowers, a card and take her out to dinner somewhere nice.’ Everyone gave me a dirty look. ‘Well, Thomas is the only one here who is having a remotely healthy relationship and I think he should do all in his power to keep it that way.’

  ‘Yeah, but flowers, chocolates and dinner – that’ll cost me a fortune.’

  ‘Thomas, it will be worth it. Just think how good you’ll look, a real romantic, a man who knows how to treat a woman. She’ll love it and it’ll be worth every penny.’

  Thomas thought about it ‘For once, Ru, I may take your advice. With all that I’ll be guaranteed a good shag, won’t I?’ Luckily Jess hit him hard before anyone else had the chance to.

  ***

  Valentine’s Day came and the mat was bare. Sophie got a rose from some guy in her acting class, but she didn’t know which one and was miserable about that. ‘I bet it’s the one I don’t even like,’ she said.

  Jess came home from work fuming because Henrietta the Horrible had flowers delivered to her at work, and she didn’t cheer up when I said she’d probably sent them to herself. Sarah just said that it was lucky no one had sent her a card because she’d have ripped it up.

  Katie got a few cards, but she wasn’t bothered. ‘Men only like me because I don’t want to see them again. It’s nothing personal to me,’ was her view on her appeal. I liked her lack of arrogance; I wanted her success with men.

  I bought a card for Ben and in it I told him that although I was better I still loved him and missed him and hoped he was safe and well. I told him how I hoped he was happy, which I thought was bloody nice of me. Of course I didn’t send it – I didn’t even know where he was – but I sealed the envelope and put it in my drawer. I felt better for doing it, although I knew it was stupid and I didn’t dare tell anyone else. I felt close to him, or as close to him as I’d ever be again.

  Although I will probably be classified a mad cow over my Ben antics, there were reasons for me being hit so hard. The first was that Ben was my first love and my first … you know. They say that the first love is always the hardest to get over, so on that point I have justification. The other was the lack of contact. I knew that seeing him might not make things easier, but if I bumped into him occasionally, or heard about him, or just saw him from a d
istance, I felt I could have started to get him out of my system. Because his departure from my life had been so absolute, my last image of him was of Ben as perfect. Does that sound crazy? I didn’t know any more, but I just felt that if I could hear from him, or about him, then he would become real to me again. At the moment he was my fantasy man. There’s no way you ever get over your fantasy man.

  I knew that Thomas got letters from Ben and Johnny, but diplomatically he never mentioned them or showed them to me. Actually, I begged him to show me them a couple of times but he refused, brushing them off as boring. I knew then that if I wanted to get over Ben I had to find out what he was doing. I’m not sure of my logic in this, but I had to read those letters.

  I devised a plan. Sophie and I went to visit Thomas. It was Sunday, I called him and told him we were bored, he said so was he and I said we’d visit him.

  ‘Soph, we have to visit Thomas,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’ She looked comfortable reading a play script and lying on the sofa.

  ‘He’s really depressed,’ I lied.

  ‘Oh, God, what’s wrong?’

  I’d known she would be immediately concerned. ‘Well, I’m not sure, he just said depressed.’

  We got our coats. You might think me devious, playing on the unrequited love of one friend and the good heart of another, but I was desperate. I had to do it.

  When we got to Thomas’s he didn’t seem depressed, but I had told Sophie that she shouldn’t mention it under any circumstances. God, I was good at this.

  Thomas went to make us tea. ‘Sophie, I need you to keep him talking in the kitchen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please, Soph, talk to him about Chelsea Football Club, for a while – please. I really need you to do this.’

  She looked at me. ‘I don’t know anything about football.’

  ‘Just ask him how they’re doing and take it from there. You’re an actress, just improvise.’