by Jane Moore
I nod, my lips and chin still smarting from prolonged contact with his sandpapery complexion, more ten o'clock than five o'clock shadow.
"It clearly is," I mutter, heading for the door.
Twenty Four
Jesus Christ Almighty. My friend . . . OK, so I use that term loosely . . . asks me to meet with her newly-ex boyfriend with a view to discussing their possible reconciliation, and what do I do?
Snog his face off, that's what. Have I no shame? Don't answer that, I'm feeling bad enough as it is.
It's the following morning now and I'm sitting staring at my answering machine with such intensity that the small, digital screen is starting to blur. Just as well, because it's flashing "6 messages"at me, and it's fair to assume that at least five of them will be from Kara and of the "where the fuck are you?" variety. My mobile, dead since I dropped it in the washing-up water whilst trying to do two things at once last week, is now lurking somewhere towards the bottom of the fruit bowl, along with various unidentifiable keys, an ancient orange, and several hair bands.
Taking a deep breath, I press "play" on the machine and slump against the arm of the sofa in preparation for a verbal beating. Kara doesn't disappoint.
Beep. "Hi, Jess, it's me. Just calling to say hope it goes well tonight, and thanks for helping me out. Call me when you get in."
Beep. "Hi, me again. It's nine and I thought you'd be back by now. Er, obviously not. I'll wait for you to call."
Beep. "It's nine-thirty now and your mobile isn't responding. Just give me a bloody call and put me out of my misery. Please!"
Beep. "Hi love, it's Mum." I feel my shoulders relax at the sound of a friendly voice amidst the ranting. "Just calling to see how you are. Speak soon."
Beep. "Jess, this is now beyond beyond. It's ten, so either you've been hit by a bus, or even more unbelievably, you have fallen into bed and forgotten to call me."
Wrong on both counts actually. Because at that precise time, I was indulging in an extremely public necking session with the man who has just dumped you.
Beep. I wince and hug my knees. "Jess, it's eleven. Where the fuck are you?" Bingo. I knew that succinctly worded question would be there somewhere.
"You have no more messages," says the machine reassuringly.
"Thank God for that," I reply, walking through to the kitchen to make a much-needed coffee. The clock on the wall says 7:45 a.m., usually the time I'm dressed and ready to leave for work.
Ten minutes later, I'm still in my Bart Simpson nightshirt, nursing a coffee and staring out of the side window with its spectacular overview of mine and next door's dustbins. What a painfully apt analogy for the current state of my life.
Dring, dring.
I sit frozen to the spot, paralyzed by the sound of the phone and knowing what's on the other end of it.
Do I pretend to be out, making my prolonged absence from Kara's radar even more suspicious? Or do I pretend to have left for work already, thereby delaying the inevitable, furious phone call to a time when I am unable to respond freely without it being witnessed by everyone in the office?
No, there's only one thing for it. It's my high noon come four hours early, and I must face it.
"Hello?"
"Well, fuck me. I'm not actually speaking to the Jess Monroe, am I?" rasps the voice on the other end. "Because I seriously thought she'd been murdered, or joined one of those convents where they take a vow of fucking silence."
You probably don't need me to tell you that it is Kara, and she's less than pleased.
"Oh, hi there." I sit down, knowing this is going to be a long one. "I did try to call you back when I got in last night, but it was engaged. Then I fell asleep." You know those three great lies? Well, I just added one.
"No you didn't. My phone was on the hook all night and no one else rang," she counteracts immediately.
"Maybe someone else was trying to get through at the same time, and we both got the engaged tone?" I say pathetically but nonetheless hopeful that she'll swallow it. "Maybe it was Dan?" I add desperately.
Eu-bloody-reka, it seems to work.
"Dan?" Her voice is still stern but slightly calmer. "Why would he try to call? What happened?"
If I tell her the unexpurgated truth, that Dan doesn't love her and has absolutely no intention of returning, I know I may as well get a shovel and keep digging south from the giant hole I'm already in.
So I sigh deeply, playing for time but hoping it will be interpreted as me agonizing over the complex personalities of two people who are so ideally suited to one another and yet so different. "It's hard to say," I bluff.
"Try," she snaps in her finest Miss Piggy tone.
"Well, the main problem seems to be that he knows you want to get married, but he's not ready to just yet. He . . ."
Her response slices through the end of my sentence. "So when will he be ready?"
Oh fuck, what have I said? Memo to self: must begin to backtrack immediately.
"He's not sure if he ever will be, that's the main problem."
There's blessed silence for a few moments, presumably as she tries to compute my waffle. Then she rallies again. "Look, can we try and cut through the crap here? What's the bottom line? Does he want us to get back together?"
Now then. Faced with such a definite question, a normal person would give a straight, cruel-to-be-kind answer. But not me, oh no. Because as much as I know that she needs to hear it, the truth is that I'm scared of Kara. I don't trust her not to shoot the messenger, not to find some new and creative way to make me miserable in order to make herself feel better. Personal ads are just the beginning. Which also gets to the heart of why we're still connected after all these years: making rudimentary efforts at friendship and going through the motions are easier than attempting to disengage. Hell hath no fury like Kara scorned.
"Wouldn't it be better to ask yourself if you want to get back with a man who's so uncertain about marriage?" I hedge.
"It depends. Sometimes they feel differently after a brief hiatus without you," she replies. "They miss you so much, they'd say or do anything to get you back, including walking down the aisle."
Don't hold your breath, I think. "I'm not sure this lad is for turning," I say, trying to make light of it.
"What makes you say that? Did you discuss it with him?"
Dear God, I would do anything to rescue myself from this excruciating conversation. Could you just arrange a little electrical storm to sever the telephone wires? Or how about a car spiraling out of control and ending up in Kara's front garden? No one to be hurt, you understand, just a little distraction.
"Well? Did you discuss it?"
Back to reality. "Not as such, no. He just didn't seem terribly keen on marriage as a concept, regardless of the woman involved."
"You discussed other women?" Her voice is shrill enough to break glass, her response reminding me that whilst love may be blind, jealousy sees too much.
"No, no, no. I didn't mean it like that. I meant that it's nothing against you personally, he just doesn't want to marry anyone. Ever."
Silence again. Be still my beating, panicking heart.
"So if I agree to just live with him and not mention marriage, what about children?" she says eventually, her voice measured.
"We didn't discuss children," I lie, thrown slightly because she's always said she doesn't want them. "He didn't bring the subject up and neither did I," I add pointlessly.
She lets out a long, heavy sigh. "Honestly, Jess, I have to say I really had high hopes for you on this. But you've turned out to be absolutely fucking useless. I may as well have sent my brother, for all the feminine intuition you've shown."
What's best? I wonder. Kara knowing the truth, or regarding me as a total fuckwit? As I fall into the latter category with her most of the time, it's no skin off my nose to add yet another instance.
"Sorry," I mumble apologetically, relaxing slightly as I anticipate the interrogation coming to an end.
"Not as sorry as I am that I relied on you," she says wearily. "So what time did you get in?"
Danger, danger. A metal bolt of tension shoots down my back again, forcing me to sit ramrod straight. "Um, just after eleven . . . I think." It's futile to pretend otherwise, knowing she called here around that time.
"So you met at seven and, even assuming your journey home was particularly troublesome and took an hour," she says slowly, "that still means you spent three hours in his company?"
"Probably. I was a bit late, so maybe slightly less," I reply lamely.
"And you're telling me that in all that time, the only snippet of information you managed to unearth is that he's not keen on marriage." Her voice starts to rise to a crescendo. "I knew that before you went. What a fucking waste of time."
Ideally, when Kara is off on one, it's wise to keep quiet. But fools rush in and here I am, doffing my jester's hat and jangling my pig's bladder on a stick. "Yes, but I didn't know that, did I? Because you always said he was going to propose any day now."
Obviously, I can't see Kara's expression right now. But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say it was somewhere between the girl in The Exorcist and Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest.
"I thought he was!" she spits. "Whilst he was getting regular fry-ups and blow jobs, the little wanker was more than happy to give the impression our relationship was for keeps."
Whoa, a little too much information, and yet another layer stripped away from Kara's feminist pretensions.
"It sounds just like Nathan," I say supportively, desperately scrabbling for some common ground between us. But she ignores me.
"So what did you talk about for three hours? Plate tectonics? Global warming?" she says sarcastically.
I'm not quite sure what plate tectonics is, but feel that now probably isn't the time to ask. "Um, we talked a bit about football, because a match was playing on the big screen, but we mostly chatted about music and how it was being destroyed by downloading and one-hit wonders."
Kara snorts derisively. "Fucking hell, dumb and dumber on the state of the record industry. I bet that was riveting."
Although she's spitting bile and most of it's raining down on my head, I don't much care, as long as it stops her from asking any more awkward questions about my meeting with Dan. I want to block the kiss from my mind, not keep being dragged back to it by her persistent interrogation.
It's now nudging 8:30, and my coffee is stone cold. "Look, Kara, I have to get off to work or I'm going to be in deep shit," I say wearily. "I'm sorry I turned out to be such a terrible spy, and I'm sorry I can't be the one to tell you that Dan's desperate to marry you and live happily ever after. But it just wouldn't be true."
She sniffs, though I think it's more through high dudgeon than distress. "We'll see," she says. "I still have a trick or two up my sleeve."
Dream on, love. From what he told me last night, not even David Copperfield could magically change Dan into the marrying kind.
But true to people-pleasing form, I say absolutely nothing.
Twenty Five
There is absolutely no way I'm going to have sex with Simon. Absolutely not. Not under any circumstances whatsoever.
The only reason I'm wearing my best underwear in matching peach lace is because my mother taught me that you should always wear nice undies in case you're run over and rushed off to hospital. And where I'm meeting him, there's lots of traffic.
We're starting with dinner at a trendy new place called Bardot's, then Simon suggested we go on to somewhere like China White or Sketch for a late-night drink. But we'll see. At the moment, I'm planning to knock it on the head and leave with my dignity intact straight after dinner.
There he is, sitting on a bar stool just inside the restaurant's main door, looking utterly, scrumptiously edible. Oh dear. Well, maybe just one late-night drink . . .
He's wearing a tight, black cashmere top, black trousers, and black suede loafers. His hair is swept back from his face and still slightly wet from the shower.
"Where's my box of chocolates then?" I quip, perching on the bar stool next to him.
"Waiting for you on my bedside table," he shoots back with a grin. "You look great."
I bloody should, having been through at least ten changes of outfit before settling on a simple black Gucci-style shift dress with black kitten heels and . . . ahem . . . black stockings and garters. Well, you have to give those poor ambulance men something to cheer up their job, don't you?
"Drink?" He gestures to a bottle of champagne on the bar.
"Thanks." As he pours, I take a look around the restaurant, a dark, moody place with lots of deep red velvet booths and chill-out music playing in the background. It screams seduction.
"I thought we'd finish this here . . .," he gestures toward the champagne bottle, "then move to our table for dinner."
"Fine," I nod. So much for pacing myself, but the combination of a deliciously chilled drink, low lighting, and the company of an undeniably gorgeous man is enough to jettison what little willpower I have into oblivion.
"The foie gras is supposed to be fantastic here," he says, tapping his champagne glass against mine. "Nice to see you."
"Nice to see you, too." I nod towards the bottle. "Champagne, foie gras . . . I hope you're not thinking of doing a bunk through the kitchens tonight. I'd have to remortgage my flat . . ."
He grins sheepishly. "No, I promise I'll be staying around tonight. That is, unless my four kids come in unexpectedly, of course . . ."
Just for one fleeting moment, I believe him and my face drops.
He bursts out laughing and nearly falls off his stool with unbridled delight at my gullibility.
"Very funny," I sniff. "But if our last meeting is anything to go by, it wouldn't surprise me."
"Now, now, don't go all grumpy on me," he chides, tweaking my cheek. "Let's have a big smile . . . come on!"
"Fuck off." I grin.
"That's better." He tops up our glasses again. "So, good week?"
I shrug. "Not bad." Realizing that this is neither the time nor the place to unburden myself about Olivia, I tell him about Kara and my meeting with Dan, conveniently omitting the bit where I snogged him.
"Well, at least he's being honest," says Simon after I've finished the story. "A lot of men find themselves walking down the aisle because it's what the woman wants, then regretting it pretty rapidly. That's exactly what happened to me."
"How long were you married to . . .?"
"Fiona. Together for four years, married for one of them," he answers swiftly, off pat. "I would have happily carried on as we were, but she wanted the big white wedding, the page boys, the cake, the lot." He groans. "I break out in a rash just thinking about it."
"So you did love her then, you just didn't like the wedding bit?"
He takes another swig of champagne, a small trickle running down his chin. The urge to lean forward and lick it off almost overwhelms me, but I restrain myself.
"I loved her enough to muddle along, but not enough to spend the rest of my life with her. Much like your mate Dan, really."
"He's not my mate," I say, a little too emphatically. "He's my friend's boyfriend."
Simon shrugs. "Whatever. It sounds like he and I were singing off the same song sheet, except that he was sensible enough to say so before he found himself taking part in some theatrical extravaganza in front of relatives he hadn't clapped eyes on since Grandma died and probably will never see again."
"So now you're just looking for a series of meaningless relationships," I say, deliberately making my voice sound teasing rather than accusatory.
He shakes his head. "No, not at all. I like being in a serious relationship, but I am old enough now to realize it has to be with the right person, not just someone you muddle along with."
Right answer! And your prize is to spend the rest of your life with the extraordinarily witty, vivacious, and never boring Jessica Monroe. OK, so she's flat chested and her legs are a litt
le short, but she's big on loyalty and long on personality.
I drain my champagne glass and note the bottle is now empty. "Shall we sit down?"
"Sure." He gestures to one of the staff, who appears almost instantaneously at our side. "We'd like to go to our table now, if that's OK."
As we pick our way through the other tables, me following behind him, I quietly marvel at how comfortable I already feel in his company. Unlike the other dates where I was constantly on edge, waiting for the next irritating mannerism or neurosis to emerge, I feel excited at the thought of a whole evening stretching ahead of me with this man. Where other dates haven't ended soon enough, I already want this one to go on forever.
We settle into a cozy booth right in the far corner of the restaurant, adjacent to each other but both with a clear view of the other diners. The lighting is flatteringly low, with just a small candle on each table for atmosphere. When the menus arrive, each has a small reading light attached to the top.
Simon orders foie gras to start, whilst I opt for a chilled tomato soup. For the main course, he encourages me to choose the lobster but, mindful of bits of flesh and shell flying across the table, I decide to leave it until we know one another better and opt for lamb chops instead.
Two hours, two bottles of wine, and too much food later, I am stuffed to the gunnels and totally, irretrievably drunk. I'm warm, comfortable, fuzzy-headed, and almost sitting in the lap of a gorgeous man who has kept me entertained throughout dinner with witty anecdotes and outrageous gossip about his colleagues. What more could a girl ask for?
A kiss, that's what.
"Kish me."
"Sorry?"
"Kish me." I point to my mouth for good measure.
"I thought you'd never ask." He leans forward and kisses me with feathery lightness on the mouth, withdrawing almost immediately but staying just centimeters from my face.
Moving forward again, he begins to rub his nose gently against mine, performing a tantalizing dance where his lips almost touch mine but not quite.