‘No, leave it, he’ll get the message.’
‘But I thought you said that he was your oldest friend.’
‘He was.’
‘Is that wise then?’
‘Yes. Stop questioning me. Is there anything else I should know?’
‘Yes, you’ve got an away day with Zoom on Friday; you need to do a presentation. You’ve got lunch with Francesca tomorrow, to review your accounts, and you’re due at Candy Confectionery in one hour. Oh, and George says you have the sweetest lips.’
‘Thanks, Dixie.’ I gave her a peck on the cheek.
I vowed to carry on with my life. The life that it had taken me most of my twenty-nine years to get right. The life I loved. George had become a little irritating niggle that was underlying my happiness. But that was all he was, a niggle.
*
George got the message that I wouldn’t be responding to his e-mails, because the following day I received a single red rose. Actually from ten o’clock in the morning I received a red rose every hour on the hour...from George. Francesca noticed and called me into her office to ask if Joe had popped the question. Francesca might be my boss, she was also a friend.
‘It isn’t Joe.’ I sighed in answer to her question.
‘Who is it then?’ She looked excited.
‘George.’ I barely had the energy to explain.
‘Who’s George, an ex?’
‘No Francesca, he’s a friend from way back. He’s been in New York for the past five years, and he’s come back because his girlfriend turned down his marriage proposal and now he says that he’s the man for me.’
‘Gosh, that sounds bizarre. What does Joe think?’ Francesca looked delighted with the developments.
‘Joe doesn’t know. Well he knows he came back but he doesn’t know anything bar the fact that George is my old friend.’
‘Oh dear, I think you should tell him.’
‘Funny. Lots of people think that.’
‘You have to. There is no way that you can have a relationship where there are secrets, no way. And I don’t wish to be pessimistic but I don’t think you can bury your head in the sand with this. We need to do something.’
‘But what?’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll have a think and let you know.’
*
The day after the roses, I heard nothing from George. That night I was going home and Lisa was coming over because Max was away and she hated being alone. I had changed out of my work clothes, opened a bottle of wine and was about to prepare some food when the buzzer went; it was Lisa.
‘Hi honey,’ she said brandishing a bottle of champagne and some chocolate ice cream.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
‘Yes, although I hate Max being away. He had to go to France, he’s photographing some horribly glamorous French model, and I miss him.’
‘You sound more of a sap than me.’
‘Impossible. Talking of that, how is “Mr Perfect”?’
‘Perfect.’ I giggled. ‘But wait until you hear the next instalment in the George saga.’ I told her about the roses.
‘What did you do with them?’ She looked at my roseless flat. ‘Gave them to Dixie, I didn’t want them.’
We opened the champagne and drank it quickly. Lisa smoked constantly (which I think is how she kept so thin), and I refrained. Lisa was such an elegant person. She has grace from her old catwalk days when she used to swan up and down wiggling her hips. When I lived with her I was amazed at how ugly some of the models were, well not ugly but not beautiful in the traditional sense of the word, but Lisa, well she was beautiful, still is. Anyway, she even smoked beautifully. If you saw her smoking you’d want to take it up because she made it look like an art form. Her long fingers seemed to make the cigarette dance and when she exhaled the smoke, well it was enough to make a grown man weep. When I used to smoke, I didn’t manage to make it look as good as that. I know this because I practised in front of the mirror. Then, because of Lisa’s smoking grace, I wanted to smoke again. Which I did. My will-power leaves a little to be desired.
‘I can’t believe what a creep he’s become,’ Lisa said.
‘It doesn’t make sense. George is this big-shot corporate lawyer and all of a sudden he’s taken a year off work and thinks he’s going to get me to fall in love with him.’ At that point, it all seemed too bizarre to take seriously. I had no idea how far he would go.
‘It’s a bit out of character.’
‘The thing that worries me, Lisa, is that he seems to be an entirely different person from the guy I met when he came back for that weekend. He seemed in control then, but now he seems to be...well I don’t know exactly but he seems to be all over the place. It just doesn’t make any sense at all.’
‘Shall we eat?’ Lisa suggested. She was renowned for changing conversations in mid-flow; I was pretty sure she had a low attention threshold.
‘Are you hungry?’ I asked, surprised. Lisa did eat, but she never admitted to being hungry.
‘Not really.’ She lit another cigarette.
‘I was going to do some tuna steaks.’
‘Sounds fantastic. I’ll just finish this and then I’ll come and help.’
I was a bit tipsy as I walked into the kitchen and switched on the light. I put my half full champagne glass down on the kitchen counter and went to the fridge. Then I stopped, feeling slightly on edge. I turned around and looked out of the window. He was standing opposite my flat, leaning against some railings, just looking up at me. I didn’t even know that he knew where I lived, although of course he had my address from when I’d first moved in. I’m not sure if he saw me, but I rushed back into the sitting room.
‘Lisa, he’s staring at my windows.’ In my flat, the kitchen was a large room at the front, my living room was adjacent and also had windows facing the front. My two bedrooms and the bathroom were on an upper floor. I shuddered as I realised that my bedroom was also at the front of the building.
‘Who?’
‘George, that’s who.’ For some reason I was whispering. I have no idea why because he couldn’t hear me. Lisa ran up to the sitting-room window, the blinds were closed, which explained why we hadn’t noticed him. She pulled up the blind. I was right behind her, he was looking straight at us. I couldn’t believe that he was there. Lisa opened the window.
‘George,’ she shouted. ‘George, what are you doing?’ I was so grateful that Lisa took control because I couldn’t. I was too stunned by the fact that he was even there. Had he turned into some kind of pervert?
‘I’m waiting for Holly to tell me she loves me,’ he shouted back.
‘Then you’re going to have a fucking long wait,’ I was angry, but luckily had Lisa to voice that anger.
‘Did you like the roses?’
‘George, I didn’t want roses from you. What if Joe were here?’ I found my voice.
‘Well he has to find out sometime.’
‘Find out what?’ Lisa asked.
‘Find out about us.’
‘But there is no us,’ I replied.
‘Oh, but there will be. Don’t worry about that. You can’t fight destiny Holly.’
‘Look, George, be an angel and piss off,’ Lisa shouted. I groaned as I saw other lights going on in the street.
‘No.’
‘George I’ll call the police,’ I threatened.
‘I don’t think you will, I really don’t think you will.’ He was right.
I grabbed Lisa’s hand and dragged her into the kitchen, where I pulled down the blind.
‘What should I do?’
‘Ignore him,’ Lisa suggested.
‘He’s in the street, outside my flat, he can see into my bedroom. My God he’s stalking me!’
‘Draw the curtains. I’m staying here tonight anyway and we can always sleep with weapons if we’re worried.’ Was she serious?
‘But he wouldn’t do anything would he?’
‘Darling, a month ago I wouldn’t ha
ve believed you if you said he was standing outside your flat stalking you. I have no idea what is going on in his mind.’
He was still there while we cooked dinner, I could see his silhouette through the closed blind. By the time we had finished eating and washed up he was still there. Lisa and I spent hours planning what to do. Her suggestion was to throw things at him; mine was to wait and see what he would do next. I was tempted to call Joe, but I wasn’t ready to explain the whole sorry saga to him. In the end we did nothing but drink and hatch elaborate plans.
I took one last look out of my bedroom window before I went to bed. It was 1.30 a.m. and he was still there. Because I was so incredibly paranoid I got changed in the bathroom, at the rear of the flat, and climbed into bed ignoring the fact that a madman —formerly my best friend—was standing in the freezing sub-zero temperature outside my home.
*
By the next morning he had gone. I had half expected him to be lying on the ground in the advanced stages of hypothermia, or even dead. Although, on reflection, if he had been, that might have solved a lot of things. I didn’t mean that, or if I did, I only meant it fleetingly.
I went to work. I was exhausted having slept fitfully. I was far too worried about George to unwind, and by the time I believe I drifted into sleep he had taken on those half-dream proportions of being an axe murderer. But the problem was, and my lack of positive action can be explained by that problem, he was still George. Despite everything he was the boy I grew up with, my closest friend, and I couldn’t decide what to do about him because I didn’t have a clue what had happened to him. Had he been affected by a full moon the way men can be? (Or did that just apply to werewolves?) Was he in the grip of temporary madness having lost the love of his life? I couldn’t help but think that there was some rational explanation for his strange behaviour (probably nothing to do with the full moon, however). I wasn’t only angry at his intrusion into my life, but I was worried about him. I was quite maternal in my own way. Sometimes I think I don’t have a maternal bone in my body, but for some reason when it came to George, all my feelings were maternal. I guess that can go some way to explaining why I freaked out over the kiss. When I first met him—his tears, his shoulders hunched, defeated—all I could do was take him in my arms and try to comfort him. Ever since that first meeting, I always needed to make sure he was all right. The way he fell apart, in a twelve-year-old way, was quite extreme. And from that moment, I had vowed to take care of him.
How could I take care of someone who wanted me to fall in love with them? Did he even want me to fall in love with him or was he just mad? I don’t mean mad in the way that he wouldn’t fall in love with me, after all I am not bad if I do say so myself, but mad because he should know that that is the one thing he could ask of me that I wouldn’t be able to do. Despite everything, I still didn’t think it was the right time to tell Joe.
‘What are you going to do?’ Freddie asked, as I finished recounting the night’s events to him and Francesca. We were in the boardroom for a ‘brainstorming session’, which is such a crappy phrase, but businesses everywhere love to use it. It makes me feel like a complete moron every time I hear myself say it.
The boardroom is my favourite in the whole office. It’s large and it’s got the most beautiful paintings on the wall. They were commissioned by Francesca from some poor art student whom I expect will go on to win the Turner Prize or something and they’ll be worth a fortune. The table is square which I like; I dislike oval and round tables for some reason, and the chairs are comfortable, I hate going back to my desk after being in there. The best thing about it though, is that Francesca’s PA brings us coffee, tea and chocolate biscuits. For some obscure reason it reminded me of being at my mother’s kitchen table at home, a strange association that I’m sure a psychologist would love to get their hands on.
‘I have no idea,’ I replied, as I yawned for the hundredth time.
‘You’re going to tell Joe,’ Francesca said.
‘But...’
‘No buts, you are going to tell Joe and you are going to do it tonight.’ I felt as if telling Joe had come as an order from my boss, and I decided not to defy her.
*
Telling Joe was quite painless really. He was upset for me, chastised me for not telling him sooner and he said that he would stay with me to ensure that there were no repeat performances. Actually Joe became all macho and said he was going to ‘deck’ George, which I found quite sexy in a base sort of way. I thanked him kindly for the offer but said that violence was way down my list as a solution. This intrusion into our relationship brought us closer together. I began to feel that we were impenetrable and there was no way that George could hurt me. I was in love, Joe was my protector. The situation was almost sexy. I was the damsel in distress, Joe my knight in shining armour and, ironically, George was the dragon.
I reported back the following day and, encouraged by my initial success, Francesca decided to take control of the situation. Both her and Freddie stood over me while I phoned George and arranged to meet him. Of course he was free that very evening, and so we arranged to have a drink. I named the venue, I set the standard, I was managing the whole thing and I quite liked the feeling. After that, the rest of the day was spent working on my clients. I had a couple of meetings, a problem to solve, the usual. I didn’t have too much time to dwell on George, but that was fine, because I planned to put an end to this nonsense once and for all.
Chapter Nine
The bar I had chosen was quite an ordinary one. It was busy and just round the corner from my office. When I say ordinary, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t nice, it was one of those big chains, so it wasn’t too fancy. It certainly wasn’t romantic. Because I was going straight from work I was wearing a black trouser suit and a cream jumper. I looked smart but not dressed-up. I didn’t even reapply my make-up before meeting him, and I didn’t brush my hair.
As I opened the door I saw him. He was sitting at a table nursing a beer, shoulders hunched. I tried to keep myself in check as I felt my heart plummet into my shoes; he looked so sad. I couldn’t help but feel for him. I strode, as confidently as I could, over to the table.
‘Hello,’ I said, pulling out a chair.
‘Hi,’ he replied. He smiled at me; a sad, lonely smile which tugged at my heart once again. His hair was brushed neatly, he was wearing a striped shirt and some chinos, a jumper across his shoulders. I remembered telling him that he would become preppy. He used to be so determined not to appear a typical lawyer that he wore old battered jeans and T-shirts when he wasn’t working, but now he was that typical lawyer.
So much history between us and that counts for a lot. It means loyalty, caring, it means so much. Our history could still be precious to me couldn’t it? Even if the present was not.
‘George, we must talk.’ Assertive; check.
‘You know how I feel.’ Again, he appeared to slump into his seat.
‘Yes, but I don’t think that is how you feel.’ Even more assertive.
‘Holly, don’t take offence but how can you know how I feel?’
‘I always knew how you felt.’
‘Yes but that was then. This is now. We’re not kids any more.’
‘I know that. You’re thirty, I’m almost thirty. We’re adults, grown-ups.’ Quite a speech, although I wasn’t sure how relevant it was.
‘So, you can see that you know how I feel about you, and you have absolutely no right to dispute it on the basis of our childhood.’
Eh? Why did I feel as if he had tied all my logic, assertiveness and determination into one big knot. Not only was I having trouble following him, but I was also having problems recollecting my line of argument. ‘It’s not that. George, you saw me before Christmas and you told me that you loved Julia.’
‘I was wrong.’
‘How can you be?’
‘Fate, Holly. Remember fate? Remember how when we were growing up we’d look at the sky and say that the sky held our fat
e, and sometime it would send it down to us, the light that meant we knew where our fate lay. Then, when we accomplished one thing, like our careers, we said that it would send down another bit to us and at some point we’d get the whole picture. But fate plays games, doesn’t it? It plays with us, and doesn’t always send answers...it sends clues. Fate does that, fate has done that and now we have to be together forever.’ No wonder he was a good lawyer, my whole line of reasoning had walked out of the door in disgust. I knew he was wrong. I just didn’t know how to tell him by dissecting his words.
‘You’re wrong.’ Great.
‘Holly, there is no point in us meeting unless you are going to tell me what you have to tell me. You’ll realise at some point that we are supposed to be together, I’m only trying to prevent you wasting Joe’s time,’ he paused to smile. ‘I know so much about you. When I leave you now I’ll picture you trying to work it out, and I know that you’ll have those creases in your brow and your mind will whirl. But you’ll see sense in the end. I’ll call you tomorrow. I need your decision by then.’ And, leaving me feeling totally flummoxed, he got up and walked out. I hadn’t even had a drink.
As I left the bar, I tried to make some sense of our encounter. Why he’d given me a day to make a decision when I had already given him my answer was beyond me.
It was only the second week of January, and already I felt that this year was spiralling out of control. I had called Joe and told him I was meeting George. He wanted to come and do his macho act, but I assured him I could handle it. But I didn’t because I had no idea what I was handling. I called him from the taxi and asked to come over. For some reason I felt uncontrollably tearful. I chastised myself for a bad job done, and for being such a wimp about it.
Joe found me crumpled in tears.
‘Holly, it’s not so bad. It’s almost flattering. This guy is in love with you and I totally understand that because I’m in love with you myself.’ I wasn’t comforted by his words.
‘The thing is it’s not flattering because it doesn’t feel right. He’s not in love with me. He’s not. I don’t know much about this situation but I do know that. He said that I’d got until tomorrow to think about it, and he sounded almost threatening.’ A fresh batch of tears coursed down my cheeks.
Deranged Marriage Page 7