A Most Desirable Marriage

by Hilary Boyd

  Jo groaned. ‘But she’s not going to publish it.’

  She had spent quite a bit of time researching bisexuality online, not just for her book but in the vague hope of understanding Lawrence’s behaviour better. It seemed to come down to the plain fact that some people are attracted to others, regardless of gender. And although the number of people who actually defined themselves as bisexual – now defined by some as ‘pan-sexual’ – was small, according to Stonewall, there were thought to be many more who simply had an ‘aesthetic, romantic or sexual attraction’ to more than one gender over a lifetime. This was a crumb of comfort to Jo. Clearly you didn’t need to have actual sex with both to feel bisexual. So maybe Lawrence hadn’t until now.

  One man she emailed reminded her that most people had preferences within a sex – blonde hair, small breasts, fat/thin etc – so why did everyone think it weird when the preferences included both genders? Jo saw his point, but still couldn’t imagine herself having sex with a woman. It certainly, by all reports, was not an easy option to identify yourself as bi. ‘No one understands,’ another correspondent complained. ‘People think we’re greedy, helping ourselves to both sexes. And promiscuous. Although they can’t prove it, because we aren’t, not any more than any other group.’

  She and her agent, Maggie, were seated on stools at the counter of a tapas bar in Soho, each with a glass of cold white wine. It was barely six and a Tuesday, the small bar still almost empty. By seven it would be crammed and noisy.

  ‘Not exactly. She’s prepared to give it a go . . . very kind of her I must say . . . but she’s only offering two five, divided into the usual three chunks.’

  Jo sighed. ‘Two and a half grand? Bloody hell. I got three times as much last time. It’s not worth doing for that.’

  ‘Well, don’t be too hasty. It’s just the publishing industry is in dire straits at the moment. And if you get a smaller advance you’ll make the money on royalties more quickly.’

  Jo could hear Maggie struggling to put a positive spin on it.

  The frenetic white-jacketed chef, cooking on a grill against the wall, reached over from behind the wooden counter, delivering a white dish of hot, salty green pimientos de padrón, placing it between them with a flourish, followed swiftly by a platter on which lay thin slices of Serrano ham overlapping each other at one end, while on the other was a heap of small crumbly nuggets of parmesan cheese. The room was hot and smoky from the cooking.

  Maggie picked up one of the peppers by the stalk and popped it in her mouth. ‘Ooh . . . hot!’ she flapped her hand in front of her open mouth. ‘But yummy. Love them, don’t you?’

  Jo nodded, but she found her agent’s news had robbed her of her appetite. She was beginning to be really worried about money. Lawrence was helping her out at the moment, but she knew that couldn’t last if her husband was going to set up on his own. She had no pension beyond the miserly offering from the state and it wouldn’t be long before Lawrence would ask her to sell their beloved house. The thought made her feel sick.

  ‘You know you can’t rely on royalties,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, look, it’s not great. I can probably get her up a bit. But she keeps repeating the fantastical/supernatural spiel – for the hundredth time. The implication is you’re being perverse not changing your style.’

  ‘So I can churn out the same as everyone else? Seems pointless.’

  ‘I know you like Frances, but I think we need to consider looking for another publisher. One who sees you a bit differently.’

  Maggie was silent as she made short work of the ham and cheese. She was in her early fifties, plump, pale, hard-working, usually dressed in serviceable black or navy and dealing with three teenaged boys who took up too much of her time.

  ‘Would the others sing a different song?’

  ‘You still have enough kudos from Bumble and Me to get their attention at least.’

  Jo had written the book five years ago. A story about a neglected teen with a loyal cat who saves her from all kinds of dangers with his strange psychic powers. It had been a success, even optioned by a television company, although the adaptation had never seen the light of day.

  ‘I’ll give it some thought. I think Helen at Johns, Carr might get you.’ Maggie glanced at her watch. ‘Christ, got to go. Mark’s in Berlin and I daren’t leave the three musketeers alone too long, they’ll get ideas.’

  She grabbed her bag from the floor, looking hassled suddenly. Jo knew she had a long journey back to Hackney and would probably have to cook supper when she got there.

  ‘You OK to get this?’ Maggie asked as she reached to kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘Of course,’ Jo said, not wanting to think about the bill yet. ‘I’ll stay a bit and finish my drink.’

  Maggie pulled a face. ‘Wish I could stay with you.’

  Watching her hurry off along the street, Jo felt suddenly bereft and had a ridiculous urge to cry. Instead, she ordered another glass of white which was deliciously cold and citrusy, and picked at the remains of the tapas, the sharp, nutty texture of the cheese sitting pleasurably on her tongue. Lawrence would like this place, she thought, unable to stop the tears filling her eyes.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’ A man in a well-cut blue suit, about her age, with slicked back grey hair, rimless spectacles and an incipient paunch was indicating the stool that Maggie had just vacated.

  ‘Not any longer.’

  He didn’t appear to understand. ‘So I can sit here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sorry . . . I couldn’t hear you.’ He sank on to the stool gratefully, clutching his briefcase to his chest.

  ‘Phew.’

  Jo smiled. Normally she wouldn’t have dreamed of responding to a strange man in a bar, but tonight she found she wanted company. He ordered a large glass of red and some spicy sausages, then turned to her.

  ‘Can I get you another?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve probably had enough.’

  ‘One more can’t hurt, can it?’ His smile was charming, lifting his otherwise heavy jowls. ‘What was it?’

  She told him.

  ‘So . . . what’s upsetting you?’

  ‘Me?’ Jo was taken aback.

  ‘When I came in . . . you looked as if you were crying?’

  His accent was polished and confident.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Don’t tell me. Some bloody fellow’s gone and broken your heart.’

  She couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘We’re a bunch of bounders and bastards,’ he went on, warming to his theme, despite Jo not having said a word in reply. ‘Apart from me, of course. I’m honest Joe, reliable as the day is long.’ He took a large gulp of wine and gave a contented sigh. ‘Needed that.’

  ‘Bad day?’

  ‘Terrible. Non-stop since eight-thirty this morning – except for a break for a dodgy prawn sandwich, which is probably killing me as I speak – and not a deal in sight.’

  ‘What sort of deal?’

  ‘I’m a mediator. I . . . well, I mediate. Company disputes. Conflict resolution. They argue; I sit with them till they stop.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘You’re being polite.’ He munched on one of his sausages with relish.

  ‘I’m not. It must take some skill.’

  His tired eyes lit up suddenly. ‘I do love it. I just find it fascinating, waiting for the chink in the armour, playing back to them what they’ve actually said, not what they think they’ve said. Offering solutions. It’s bloody satisfying when it works.’

  ‘And bloody frustrating when it doesn’t?’

  They talked easily together, ordered more wine, more food. By eight-thirty the noise made conversation difficult and they were being jostled from behind by the crowd leaning over them to buy drinks.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. My flat’s only in the next street. This is my local.’

  ‘Thanks, but I should get home.’

&
nbsp; ‘Now? It’s so early. I promise I have no ulterior motive except some cold wine in the fridge and no one to enjoy it with.’ He was raising his eyebrows at her, the expression in his eyes amused and self-assured.

  ‘I can’t come to your flat. I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Easily solved. Hugh Davenport.’ He held out his hand and shook hers firmly as she introduced herself. Then he reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed a card, holding it up to her. ‘These people can vouch for me, can’t you, Jesus?’ He pronounced it as a Spaniard would: Hey-zoos.

  The man who had been doing most of the grilling of the tapas turned his sweaty face towards them and grinned at Hugh.

  ‘You want me tell this lady you not a bad boy?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Jesus shrugged, turned to Jo. ‘I kill him tomorrow if he try anything. You just let me know.’

  ‘See?’ Hugh already had his hand in the small of her back, guiding her out into the Soho night.

  Jo tossed a mental coin in her head: she liked him; she didn’t fancy him; he really was a mediator, his card said so; he knew the chef at the tapas bar who obviously liked him too; she was too old to be a target for sex; it was early, she didn’t feel like being alone; she was bored to death with her life.

  His flat was up a narrow, steep flight of stairs, two floors above a sports shop. It was obviously his London pad rather than his home, as it was sparsely furnished with laminate wood flooring and basic John Lewis in conservative navy and beige. There was nothing in the fridge but six bottles of the same New Zealand Sauvignon and an opened packet of coffee tagged shut with a yellow plastic clip. He probably has a wife and four children in Hampshire, Jo thought, although there were no photographs to prove this.

  ‘God, glad to be out of that mayhem. I usually get there earlier.’

  ‘You go to the same place every night?’

  ‘I’m only in town two at the most. My home’s in Kent. But yes. It’s easy and quick. I often have work to catch up on.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you working.’

  ‘Oh, not tonight. Sit down, I’ll open a bottle.’

  He also pulled a packet of cheese straws from the cupboard and splayed them in a bowl, then sat down beside her, there was no choice. Jo suddenly wished she hadn’t come. Hugh had been relaxed in the bar, but now he seemed to have something on his mind which was making him tense, as if he too were regretting her presence.

  ‘One glass and I’ll go,’ she said.

  ‘Will you excuse me while I make one phone call?’ He drew his mobile from his pocket. ‘Won’t be a sec.’ He disappeared into the bedroom and was gone a long time. Jo was just on the point of tiptoeing out, when he reappeared, his tie and suit jacket off.

  ‘Sorry, sorry . . . had to call my daughter. She’s had a problem with a leak from the upstairs flat and the bloody man won’t cough up for the damage. I talked to my solicitor today and I wanted to let her know what he said.’

  ‘Please, I really should go.’ Jo was already on her feet, the glasses of white almost untouched on the table in front of them.

  ‘Don’t . . . don’t go yet, Joanna. I’m a hopeless sleeper and I loathe television. What can I do for the next few hours if you run out on me?’ Again, the charming smile, the pleading eyes. ‘Anyway, it’s a terrible waste of good wine.’

  She sat down again.

  It took them a while before they finished the bottle. Hugh asked her about her work, her family, Lawrence – he was a good listener, obviously a prerequisite of his job – making her laugh with his boyish humour. She found out almost nothing about him. This is my life now, she thought. Sitting on strange sofas with men I don’t know, hoping, I suppose, if I’m very lucky, to fall in love with one of them someday. But falling in love seemed a ridiculous idea. She loved Lawrence, and however much she told herself not to, her heart continued to yearn for just one look from her husband’s blue eyes that said he loved her too.

  When she got up to go, a little wobbly, Hugh got up too.

  ‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ she said, as they stood by the door. ‘I was in need of company tonight.’

  ‘The pleasure was all mine.’

  He held her gaze, as if asking her the question. She said nothing, so he began to draw her towards him, lowering his head as if preparing to kiss her. Why not? she asked herself. But her heart wasn’t in it, her body only remembered the way Lawrence’s body fitted so well with her own, and she drew back from the strangeness of another mouth.

  ‘No?’ Hugh had a quizzical smile on his face.

  ‘Sorry,’ she replied.

  He shrugged. ‘It could have been nice. But maybe we’re a bit old for one night stands.’

  She laughed. ‘Put like that . . .’

  He held the door open for her at the head of the dark stairs, reaching to push the press-button timer switch. Jo couldn’t see a thing in the dim light.

  ‘Will you be all right getting home? I could call you a taxi . . .’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Ring me if you feel like it. You know where I am of a Tuesday night.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, although she knew she wouldn’t and she was sure he knew it too.

  *

  ‘I really don’t think it’s such a great idea to go to a strange man’s flat alone, darling. You’d only known him for ten minutes.’

  ‘I know, but he seemed OK. I did think about it.’

  ‘Hmm . . . not exactly reassuring. You’ve got to be much more careful. You’re a novice at all this. He could have been anybody.’

  ‘Well, he was “anybody”. But if I’d met him online, as you keep suggesting, would it have been any safer?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to go back to a strange man’s flat wherever you meet him. Once you’re alone with someone, anything can happen.’ Her friend’s tone was aunt-like and severe.

  ‘Yeah, well it almost did. He sort of offered to kiss me.’

  ‘NO!’ Donna shrieked, pulling the pottery wheel, on which spun another fledgling pot, to an immediate halt. ‘So all this shrinking violet behaviour is a front! You’re a shameless flirt, Joanna Meadows. Two men trying to take possession of your lips in a week? That beats my recent batting average into a cocked hat!’

  ‘Swedish Brian just slipped I think, too drunk to stand up straight. The other one was being polite.’

  ‘Men don’t kiss women out of politeness.’ She wiped her hands on her apron.

  ‘I’m sure they do sometimes. Anyway, it was depressing.’

  ‘Why? Didn’t you fancy him?’

  ‘I didn’t, but it’s not that. He was a decent man but . . . he wasn’t Lawrence.’ She felt tears in her eyes. ‘How do I ever replace him, Donna?’

  Her friend sighed. ‘Wish I knew, darling.’ She got up from the stool and opened the door for Max, who was outside snuffling to get in. The Border Terrier immediately came over to Jo, licking her hand and jumping up to be patted.

  ‘Hey Maxy,’ Jo took the little face in her hands and stared into his pansy eyes. ‘Tell me the secret . . . go on, I’m sure you know.’ The dog wriggled out of her grasp. She looked up at Donna. ‘I just wonder how he can love me for so long, and then suddenly not love me at all. I’ve tried to do the same, but it’s not working.’

  ‘I’m sure he does still love you.’

  ‘That’s even more stupid then.’

  ‘If you were in the grip of a sexual passion, you’d probably forget him . . . certainly in the short term.’

  Jo growled with frustration. ‘Yes, but how do you get in the grip? That’s what I want to know. I mean I’m sure having it off with Hugh or Brian wouldn’t be horrible exactly . . . but passion? One so huge it’ll make me forget Lawrence? How likely is that?’

  Donna shook her head from side to side, considering. ‘You just never know. I had a friend once who—’

  ‘Don’t tell me . . . she was eighty and bonked the milkman every minute of every day until she
died.’

  Her friend chuckled. ‘Close . . .’

  ‘It’s OK for you. You don’t want commitment. You scarper at the first whiff of love. I’m not like that.’

  Donna was silent for a moment. ‘I suppose I am happier on my own. I mean Walter and I rubbed along fine, but even in the early years I had a wandering eye. Don’t know what it is, but the thought of being like you and Lawrence – faithful for hundreds of years – makes me positively nervous.’

  ‘That didn’t work out so well though, did it . . . for me and Lawrence.’

  ‘For nearly forty years it did.’

  ‘And you’re not scared, as you get older, that you’ll run out of men to have affairs with and end up totally alone?’

  ‘Losing my sexuality scares me stiff. But I don’t see how having a permanent partner would solve that. I’d just be stuck with someone who only makes love to me because I’m there. And he’d probably expect me to cook his meals and wash his smalls.’

  Donna picked up Jo’s mug and her own and went over to the windowsill to make a fresh pot of coffee.

  ‘I took him for granted,’ Jo muttered, suddenly and painfully struck by the sheer comfort of being Lawrence’s wife. Of going out with him to social events, of knowing he would be home in the evening and she could tell him, over a glass of wine, all the things – be they thoughts or actual events, either trivial or vitally important – that had happened during the day. Of knowing there was someone there who was always on her side, who would actually listen when she told him a boring story about delays on the Central Line. Of waking in the night, worrying, and being able to get a cuddle and some common sense. Of sex with a person who knew her body as if it were his own. And unlike Donna, she enjoyed cooking for Lawrence, didn’t resent washing his socks, although she drew the line at ironing his shirts. She wasn’t pretending it was perfect, but the comfort was intrinsic, aside from the usual ups and downs of married life. No passion she was ever likely to enjoy in the future would wipe this from her memory.

  Her friend’s expression was weary. ‘Darling, listen. What’s gone is gone. You have to try and move on. There are probably hundreds of men out there who think as you do, who want real commitment. You just have to look.’