by Jane Moore
But Ben stays firmly in his seat, not even a flicker of panic on his face. Quite the contrary, in fact. He looks absorbed.
"So you thought Seb might have a chance of fulfilling that criteria?"
I purse my lips. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I thought I'd never know if I didn't at least give it a try."
"And what about Ben R. Thomas?" he asks softly. "Can you see yourself achieving it with him?"
"Who knows?" I smile enigmatically. "We'll just have to wait and see."
Thirty Seven
It's May 3, and I'm thirty-five today. All together now, aaaaarrrgh! Actually, I'm just being overly dramatic, as ever. I feel absolutely fine about it, particularly given the year I've had. Truth be known, I'm just glad to have reached this milestone in one piece.
Last year, if you remember, was the "surprise" party that Olivia tipped me off about, with Kara's even more hateful surprise present at the end of it. Little did I know then that it would set me on a journey to run the full gamut of single--well, mostly anyway--men and their dating foibles.
So, this year, I have headed any planned surprises off at the pass and organized a little party myself at a cheap and cheerful Italian restaurant just a few hundred yards from my house.
On the promise of a set menu for twelve heavy drinkers, the staff have agreed to section off the rear of the room for my exclusive use, and Tab and I have been here for the past couple of hours decorating it with brightly colored table confetti, candles, and various shaped balloons bearing the words "Happy 30th." Just my little joke.
"Ta dah! That looks fantastic!" Tab stands back to admire her handiwork, a garish "Happy Birthday" banner stretched from one corner of the room to the patch of ceiling just above the table. "I think we're just about done."
I rush over to grab the corner of the stepladder as she starts to climb down. "You shouldn't be on that bloody thing in your condition," I chastise, patting her bulging stomach as her feet hit terra firma.
She waves a dismissive hand at me. "Nonsense, I'm fine. I'm in the blooming stage. You know, where you want to nest all the time. I spend my life up stepladders at home, putting right all those irritating things that Will and I have been ignoring for months." She holds her arm up and bends it at the elbow. "Strong as an ox, that's me."
I smile. "Funny isn't it? Despite your bit of trouble conceiving, you now seem to be having the least problematic pregnancy of all time."
"I know, and thank the Lord for it. I don't think I could have coped with morning sickness and the ghastly Janice."
"Ah yes, how is the miserable old witch?"
"The same. Testing laughing gas on a daily basis, having us all in stitches. She's a real card." Tab squints at a small, stained clock on the far wall. "What time is it?"
I look at my watch. "Eight on the dot. Someone should arrive in a minute, probably Richard and Lars, as they're always so punctual."
Sure enough, barely have the words left my mouth than Richard bursts in through the door of the restaurant, a vision in tight, black PVC jeans and a T-shirt bearing the charming slogan "Do I look like a fucking people person?" I wince at the thought of my mother's expression when she sees it.
"I take it The Ivy was fully booked?" he says, casting a derisive eye over the interior.
"Fuck off." I smile sweetly. "Where's Lars?"
"Just unloading your present out of the Pickfords van. He's right behind me."
Right on cue, Lars ambles in, carrying a large parcel beautifully wrapped in silver paper.
"Happy birthday." He grins and hands it over.
"Thanks, honey." I kiss him on both cheeks. "I'll open it later. Glass of bubbly?"
I can ill afford it, but I have spent roughly $500 on providing champagne and wine, with everyone else agreeing to fork out for their meal.
Leaving Tab to ensure that Richard and Lars are furnished with drinks, I walk through to the kitchens to have one last chat with the chef. As he's Italian and barely speaks any English, this involves much hand-waving, miming of various culinary tasks such as tomato chopping, and lots of smiling in the hope that he'll do me proud with a delicious birthday meal.
By the time I reemerge fifteen minutes later, most of my guests have arrived and are gratefully slurping their way down their first glass of champagne.
"Darling, you look divine!" Mum sweeps down on me, her double pearls clacking together. "Happy birthday! But you're not thirty . . ." She waves her hand towards the balloons.
"It's a joke, Mum." I smile thinly. "Where's Dad?"
"He's sitting down in that corner, talking to Michael. I don't know what about, but I'd hazard a guess at rugby." She glances over her shoulder. "But never mind them, doesn't Olivia look fantastic."
I follow her eye line to where Olivia is chatting animatedly to Madeleine. She does indeed look sensational in a black gossamer sleeveless cocktail dress and dainty diamante encrusted sandals with kitten heels.
Her hair is now growing back nicely, cut into a short, urchin style that frames her face beautifully and makes her eyes look huge. She can still look gaunt in a certain light, but she's starting to fill out again in all the right places, her appetite having returned to normal.
After finishing the last of her chemotherapy, she had a month's respite before moving on to the less debilitating radiotherapy. Now that's over, she's deemed to be in remission and the game of watching and waiting has begun. Just occasionally, she still gets a little panicky about the cancer coming back, particularly when she reads similar stories in the newspapers.
But for the most part, she's getting on with her life and trying to be as normal as possible for the children. Matthew and Emily's packed memory boxes are tucked away in a dark corner of the attic, and that's where I hope they'll stay.
"Hey you." I sidle up to Olivia and plant a kiss on her right cheek, still cold from the outside air. "You look amazing."
"Doesn't she?" Madeleine leans across to give me a kiss. "I was just saying exactly that, and I love the hair. I'd keep it like that."
Olivia smiles. "I must say, it's so much easier to look after, but Matthew says that mummies should always have long hair, so on that basis, I'm growing it back to shoulder length."
I turn to face Madeleine. "You look . . . um . . . different," I falter.
Given that this is the woman with a penchant for bustiers and "pussy pelmets," as Richard so fetchingly describes short skirts, Madeleine has undergone something of a transformation this evening. She's wearing tailored black trousers, a beige cashmere top, and black suede loafers with a little metal bar across the front. Her hair is sleekly combed into a ponytail.
She looks slightly sheepish. "I know it's not exactly my style, but Marty loves me to dress like this," she whispers conspiratorially, glancing across the room to where he's talking to Will.
Marty is the rugby player she met at Tab and Will's New Year's Eve party, the one whose face she snogged off most of the evening, then dragged home afterwards. But, unusually for Madeleine, who generally sees one night as a long-term commitment, they have been dating ever since. Even more surprisingly, she has remained faithful.
"The same man for five months and now you're changing the way you look to please him?" I tease. "My God, it must be love!"
Her face flushes slightly. "I'm not sure about that, but I do know I have no need to look elsewhere. He's fantastic in bed . . . such stamina! He can go for hours."
Olivia lets out a low groan. "God, I can't think of anything worse than someone grinding away for days on end. I much prefer quickies." She grins.
They both look at me, as if my view will be the deciding factor.
"Oh . . . um . . ." I stumble. "I suppose I like a little bit of both really."
"What are you three whispering about?" Michael has appeared.
"I was just telling them we like quickies," says Olivia.
"As opposed to what?" he quips, ruffling her hair.
"When's dinner?" It's Dad, rubbing his hands together in glee
at the thought of impending nosh.
I look at my watch and see it's 8:30. "Good point." I clap my hands together loudly, trying to get everyone's attention above the hum of noise. "Grub up, everyone!"
I ignore my mother's look of horror at the sight of one of her daughters using such a vulgar expression to announce dinner. No doubt she'd like to see me tinkling a solid silver gong.
It's clear where I'm expected to sit, as Tab has attached two helium-filled birthday balloons to the back of the chair. Moving into position, I notice everyone else is standing around, waiting for me to direct them to seats.
I pat the chair to my left. "Olivia, you come here, please, then Tab there . . ." I point to the chair directly opposite me. "Everyone else, sit where you like . . . except for here." I jerk my head to the empty chair on my right.
I'll bet you're chomping at the bit to know who that's for, aren't you? OK, maybe not quite that excited, but you'd like to know, right?
Hang on. A blast of cold air hits the side of my legs as the restaurant door opens and the final guest marches in breathless.
Handing his coat to a lurking waiter, he holds an arm aloft in general greeting to everyone assembled, then walks round to the empty chair by my side.
"Sorry I'm a bit late. It took me longer than I thought to get here." He bends down and plants a tender, lingering kiss on my lips. "You look absolutely beautiful."
I beam with pleasure. "Thank you, darling."
A chorus of greetings and welcomes resounds from my other guests: "Hello, Ben!" "Good to see you, mate!"
So there you have it. The man who has a special, reserved place at my side is Ben. Ben R. Thomas, to be precise.
I hope that, after accompanying me along the rocky road to dating enlightenment, you're pleased that it's him. Because I know I am.
Finally, after days, months, years wasted on the unsuitable, I have a straightforward, delightful man with a sense of humor, the heart of a gentle giant, and the right priorities in life. A man who works selflessly to help others, yet still finds the time and the energy to be a wonderfully considerate boyfriend to me. And best of all, my family adore him.
True, it took me a while to realize what had been staring me in the face for some time, but then again, we didn't get off to a great start the first time we met and I did think he was gay. So that's my excuse.
Anyway, it's all immaterial now because we're so blissfully happy. Richard would say nauseatingly, and has done so on several occasions.
In case you're wondering what happened during the rest of our surprise candelit lunch . . . in between the main course and dessert, it dawned on me that Ben had gone to the trouble of creating Seb Northam in order to woo me in the way he thought I wanted to be wooed; he'd put up with my ridiculousness about thinking he was gay (and forgiven me, apparently); he'd taken the trouble to book a private room at a restaurant and decorate it with candles; and he'd been brave enough to say outright that he might be falling in love with me.
All I had done was turn up, and it was high time I made an effort too.
So I threw caution to the wind, walked round the table, sat on his knee, and sliced through the sexual tension by grabbing the back of his neck and snogging his face off. To my wonderful astonishment, I felt the sparks fly--and from that moment on, it was smooth sailing. High on white wine and happiness, we charted a course back to my flat and fell into bed, where we stayed until the following morning, wrapped in each other's arms. And as you ask, yes, the sex was bloody great.
The past five months with Ben has taught me a lifetime of lessons, one being that sex doesn't always have to be mind blowing. Sometimes it can be soft and slow, sometimes frenetic, and sometimes just downright quick, perfunctory, and lazy. He's absolutely right when he says it's an important part of a relationship, but not the be-all and end-all.
I realize now that, in the past, I mistook strife for passion. If a relationship was a constant melee of ups and downs, I thought that meant it was exciting. In retrospect it wasn't, it just meant the person dishing out the problems was a Grade A pain in the arse.
I have also learned that just because you don't feel that "pow" at the start, doesn't mean that it won't develop at a later date. It may only have been four months, but I already know that I love Ben deeply, at a level to which I have never even come close before.
We already knew so much about each other, and since we've been dating we have learned much, much more. But the familiarity hasn't bred contempt, only a sense of comfort that comes from knowing you're with someone who cares for and supports you.
And so, dear reader, you might be wondering . . . do I regret all those wasted hours of going on Internet dates?
Not a bit of it.
OK, so I finally met the man of my dreams the traditional way--through a friend of a friend in a wine bar. But in a bizarre way, it was still the anonymity of the Internet and his alter ego that gave Ben the courage to set up our first date. In the end, the all-important first steps of our fledgling romance were carried out via the twenty-first-century form of epistolary courtship--e-mail. Jane Austen, eat your heart out.
Leaning slightly to my right, I reach over and grab Ben's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He gives me a loving smile, then scrapes back his chair to stand up, kissing my forehead as he rises.
"Ssssh, everyone." He taps a teaspoon against his champagne glass. "A toast . . ." He holds the glass out in front of him. ". . . to Jess on her thirty-fifth birthday."
"Happy birthday," they chorus, all holding their glasses aloft before taking a sip. Or a hearty swig in Madeleine's case, much to Marty's obvious disapproval.
Ben remains standing.
"I just want to say a few words about the birthday girl," he continues, "because I know how much she means to us all."
The room falls completely silent, everyone concentrating on what he's about to say.
"It's safe to say it's been quite a tough year for Jess, first and foremost because of what's happened with Olivia." He pauses and looks at my sister for reassurance that it's all right to mention it. She responds with an assenting smile.
"Of course Olivia's trauma was the greatest of all, but I know that her illness affected Jess more than she ever let on. But she chose to confide in me, a virtual stranger.
"In a way, that was how we got to know each other and became such great friends. So Olivia . . ." He raises his glass in her direction, "as tough as it's been, thank you for that. And I must say it's fantastic to see you sitting here tonight, looking absolutely stunning. Long may it continue."
Everyone breaks into spontaneous applause and Olivia flushes bright red with a mixture of embarrassment and delight. Ben continues.
"I also know that Olivia's illness changed Jess irrevocably and made her look at life from a completely different perspective, namely that our time on this planet is too precious to waste doing things we don't want to do.
"So it was good-bye to Good Morning Britain . . ." A cheer goes up. ". . . and good-bye to Kara, who I never met but I understand wasn't particularly pleasant . . ."
"Darling, she made Leona Helmsley look like Goldilocks," drawls Richard.
Ben smiles, then his face turns slightly serious again. "And, thankfully, it was 'hello' to me. We've been together for four months now, but I suppose because we were friends first, it seems like a lot longer."
"A bloody life sentence, I should imagine," Richard chips in again, giving me a theatrical wink.
"Do you ever have an unexpressed thought?" I poke my tongue out playfully at him, then turn my face back up towards Ben.
"So," he continues, licking his lips as if slightly nervous. "I know we're all here to celebrate Jess's birthday, but there's something else I'd like to throw into the mix if I may . . . particularly as everyone who means something special to her is right here in this room . . ."
He pauses for a moment and fumbles in the left pocket of his jacket, pushing the chair to one side with his right hand. Dropping onto one
knee, his left hand comes into view holding a small black box which he flips open. Inside is an exquisite, antique diamond ring.
"Jess . . ." He looks up at me, naked apprehension in his eyes. "Will you marry me?"
My mouth suddenly feels dry, as though my tongue is three times its normal size. The surface of my skin morphs into one giant goose bump, and an involuntary shiver zigzags its way down my spine. I had absolutely no idea this was coming.
Over the years, there are countless times I have thought about the moment when a man would ask me to marry him . . . how I would respond in a mature and considered way, appearing pleased but maintaining great dignity.
Oh, fuck it.
"Yes, yes, yes!" I shriek, leaping up and wrapping my arms round his neck. "Just you try and stop me!"
Bowled over by the euphoria of the moment, I bury my face in his neck and inhale his familiar smell that has become like a drug to me. I'm vaguely aware of the room erupting into whoops and cheers behind me.
Eventually pulling away, I look into Ben's face, now free of the previous tension. He's grinning broadly, his eyes tearing slightly.
Olivia and my mother are both sobbing loudly, clinging onto each other with unbridled delight that "Jess the fickle" has finally landed herself a decent, loyal man rather than a feckless, out-of-work musician who would be the new Sting if only he could get out of bed in the mornings.
"Congratulations, love, I'm thrilled for you." Dad appears by my side, his arms extended.
I fall into them. "Thanks, Dad. What a surprise, eh?"
He shakes his head. "Not for me. Ben rang me first to ask if I minded. It was our little secret."
I widen my eyes at him. "And did Mum know?"
"Are you kidding?" he scoffs. "Radio Helen? I don't think so."
After a couple more minutes of congratulations from all quarters, the restaurant owner gestures that he's ready to bring out the starter courses and everyone heads back to their seats.
As the buzz of general conversation fills the room, Olivia squeezes my leg and smiles warmly. "This is the best get-well present I could ever ask for," she says quietly. "I feel as happy as I did on the day Michael and I got engaged."