by Jane Green
“Yes, Libby, you’re being ridiculous.”
That’s the thing, you see. I suppose what I do is associate sex with how much someone likes me, and if I think about it, which I don’t want to do that much, every time I’ve broken up with someone the last night we’ve spent together, we haven’t had sex. And okay, admittedly, there have been other problems, like they’ve been a bit off with me, a bit distant, but still it always comes completely out of the blue when they turn around and tell me it’s over.
And every time I think, I should have known that night. I should have known when they rolled over and said they were tired or not in the mood, or stressed, but maybe Olly has a point, and I suppose it is unfair that we expect them to be up for it whenever we are.
And Nick was lovely in the morning. Okay, we didn’t have sex again, but hey, it was a late night, and I know I’m being ridiculous, and insecure, and probably slightly paranoid, but Olly makes me feel better about it, so by the time Jules phones to do the postmortem I’m feeling so okay I don’t even bother mentioning it.
And she basically repeats what she said last night about Nick, the good stuff I mean, the stuff about him being nice to me and us being good together, and I drink it in, and I feel fine, and it doesn’t bother me that Nick doesn’t call me all morning because why would he? He’s busy getting on with his life, and I’m busy getting on with mine.
At lunchtime Jo buzzes me and asks what I’m doing.
“Nothing,” I reply, looking with distaste at the smoked salmon bagel on my desk that I don’t really have the stomach for.
“I want to go shopping,” she says. “Fancy coming with me?”
“Where?” I ask, feeling that old familiar buzz at the prospect of spending some money, a feeling I haven’t had in a while.
“I thought we could get a cab to St. John’s Wood and hit the high street.”
“St. John’s Wood? What the hell’s in St. John’s Wood?”
“Joseph, for starters.”
“I’m coming.”
As a receptionist on a completely crap salary Jo really shouldn’t be able to afford the clothes she wears every day, but luckily for her she has extremely wealthy parents who never seem to think twice about giving her money for her wardrobe, and although we know we should all hate her for it, she’s so nice we can’t help but adore her.
And what’s more she pays for the taxi.
“I’ll get the one on the way back,” I say, feeling slightly guilty as she puts her Louis Vuitton wallet back in her Gucci bag.
“Whatever,” she says, tripping off down the high street, and it is a bit of a revelation for me, like a mini Bond Street in North London.
“How did you discover this?” I say, itching to go into practically every shop we pass.
“My parents live round the corner,” she says, “so I spend most of my life here. So much easier than going into town.”
She obviously does spend most of her life here because as soon as we walk into Larizia, our first stop, the girl in there says, “Hi, Jo! How are you?” and you just know that she’s probably their best customer.
On to a clothes shop a couple of doors down, where I follow her around, watching as she expertly pulls things off the racks and flings them at the sales assistant with a cheeky grin, and I perch on a chair outside the changing room, giving her the yes or the no, although to be honest pretty much everything looks fantastic on her as she’s so tall and thin.
And we go into Joseph, which is a bit of a scary experience, because the woman in there looks me up and down and evidently decides I’m not good enough to bother saying hello to, so she sticks her nose up in the air and carries on ordering the sales assistant around, and I sort of want to disappear.
“Aren’t you going to even look?” says Jo, and I shrug and halfheartedly look, but I can’t really be bothered. I realize that it’s because I haven’t got anywhere to wear these clothes anymore, that there wouldn’t be any point in buying that “fabulous” chiffon shirt or those “wicked” PVC trousers, because my life with Nick just doesn’t need those sorts of things.
“This isn’t like you,” says Jo, pulling a gold Amex out of her purse and paying for a pile of tissue-wrapped clothes. “What’s going on?”
I shrug again, and think of explaining it to her, but then decide not to because I know what Jo would do. She’d snort with derision and tell me that you don’t dress for the men in your life, you dress for yourself, and anyway what the hell was I doing going out with someone who quite clearly didn’t enjoy doing the same things as me?
She wouldn’t understand.
“I’m just a bit strapped for cash at the moment.” I know she won’t be able to say anything after this because she feels ever so slightly guilty at having so much money from her parents, and sure enough, she nods and drops the subject.
And when we get back to the office there’s a note on my desk saying Nick called, and my heart, even after three months, etc., etc., still skips a little beat and I call him back immediately, which I know you’re not supposed to do, but as I think I may have already mentioned, I’m a bit crap at playing hard to get, and I love the sound of his voice when he picks up the phone, and all my insecurities are forgotten because he called, and he didn’t just call, he called the next day.
I think you’ll all agree this is a bit of a result.
“Hello, my darling,” he says.
“Hello, my darling,” I echo.
“I’m bored,” he says.
“Why don’t you write?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh. What are you in the mood for?”
“You. On a silver platter. Preferably with nothing on. No, wait, with a pair of red lace crotchless knickers.”
“God, you’re such a bloke!” I laugh. “Red lace crotchless knickers? How tacky.”
“I thought I was a girl . . .”
“You are, but when it comes to sex you’re very much a bloke.”
“I’m sorry about last night. I’m phoning to apologize for being so tired and for not, you know, not ravishing you like I usually do.”
“That’s okay,” I say, hugging myself with happiness. “I know that most women think all men are up for sex anytime, anyplace, anyhow, but I don’t think that, I know what a pressure that is for men, and it’s fine if you don’t feel like it.
“I didn’t feel like it either,” I conclude. Lying.
“Blimey! Are you sure you’re not a bloke?”
I laugh.
“I was just worried you’d get the wrong idea,” he says.
“Don’t be silly,” I trill with laughter. “It was lovely just cuddling.”
“You’re so damned nice,” he says, sounding serious. “God, how can you be this nice?”
“What d’you mean? This is just the way I am.”
“I know, but I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re so understanding all the time, and so nice!”
“Stop saying I’m nice.” I’m grinning. I’m grinning so hard any second now I might tell him I love him. Ha! Got you. That was a joke. Of course I don’t love him.
“Okay. Are you busy as well as nice?”
“No,” I lie. “Not a lot on this afternoon.” As I say it I survey the pile of numbers I’ve got to call on my desk.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing planned.” Another lie. I said I’d go to the movies with Jo, but hey, it’s only Jo, and it’s only the movies. She’ll understand. “What about you?”
“I’m meeting Rog for a drink. I miss you, will you come with?”
Shit. Dilemma. I want to see Nick more than anything, but I honestly don’t think I could stand another night with one of his vile friends.
“Umm.” I stall for time.
“Go on,” he says.
“I’d better not,” I say. “I kind of said I might go to the movies with Jo.”
“All right,” he grumbles. “What about later, after the movies?”
“You’re thinking about sex again, aren’t you?”
“I’m a bloke, Libby. I think about sex every six seconds.”
I laugh.
“Why don’t you come over when the movie’s finished?” he says.
“Tell you what. Why don’t you come over to me?”
“You really hate my flat, don’t you?”
“It’s not that I hate it exactly, I just prefer mine.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem. So do I.”
Five minutes later Jules phones.
“I’ve just eaten a ton of chicken left over from last night, a ton of couscous, a whole packet of kettle crisps—the big ones—and a Mars Bar.”
“I’m still sitting here looking at a smoked salmon bagel.”
“I’m fat. I’m huge. I’m disgusting.”
“You’re not fat. So you ate a lot, big deal. Anyway, it’s not bad food, it’s healthy.”
“Since when was a Mars Bar healthy?”
“Okay, maybe not the Mars Bar, but have a salad tonight and you’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think I can,” she groans. “I haven’t got any willpower. I’ll have to have more chicken.”
“So you’ll be good tomorrow. It’ll be fine. You won’t put on weight after one day of eating a lot.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“What are you having tonight?”
“Dunno. If it makes you feel better I’ll have a Chinese takeaway.”
“It makes me feel a lot better. What will you have?”
“Mmm. Let me think. How does barbecued spareribs, chicken and cashew nuts in yellow bean sauce and rice sound to you?”
“Not nearly bad enough. What kind of rice?”
“Steamed?”
“No, make it egg fried.”
“Okay. Happy now?”
“Not yet. You can’t have Chinese without having seaweed.”
“Okay. I’ll have seaweed. Happy now?”
“Very happy. God, Libby, you’re such a pig.” And we both start laughing.
I don’t go to the movies, Jo blows me out, but I do have my Chinese, although I cheat slightly, at least I hope I do, because we’ve just won a new account of these supposedly unbelievable fat pills that are all the rage in America and have just come over here.
God knows what’s in them, some sort of shellfish I think, and what they’re supposed to do is attract all the fat you eat so instead of absorbing it, it goes straight through you. We’ve had loads of bottles lying round the office, and I filched a couple before I left, and I know the instructions say to take two to four with a large glass of water immediately before eating, but I decide to take six just to be on the safe side.
“Bloody hell!” I look in the mirror at my potbelly, and check the packet. How bloody long does it take for these damn things to work anyway? I sit and watch TV and wait for the chance to, er, expel the fat from my body, but no, not only is having a poo the last thing my body seems to want to do, my stomach’s not going down either. Shit. It’s too late. Nick will just have to put up with it.
Hmm. Maybe sit-ups would work. I hook my legs under the bed, wondering why on earth I don’t exercise more often, because this is easy. And one. And two. And three. And four. And five. And, Jesus, why am I puffing already? And six. And seven. And eight. And nine. And I don’t think I can go on any longer.
I stand up and look in the mirror, and my face is bright red and I look seriously unfit and oh, what the hell, I think I’ll have another cigarette, and just when I’ve lit it the doorbell rings and oh my God! Look at me! I’m a complete state.
“What have you been up to?” says Nick, kissing me hello and smoothing back my hair.
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
“I think I would.”
“Exercise.”
“Urgh. Don’t talk to me about exercise. I’m allergic to the bloody stuff.”
“You don’t need to do it,” I say, rubbing his deliciously firm washboard stomach. “But look at this.” I push my stomach out, figuring it’s better to be up-front about it.
Nick recoils in horror. “What. Is. That?”
“I know,” I say. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
Nick moves closer, gets down on his knees and presses one ear against my stomach. “Yup.” He nods sagely. “I know exactly what that is. It’s a food baby.”
I start laughing.
“In fact,” he says, tapping my stomach in a doctor-ish sort of way, “I’d say it was a Chinese food baby.”
How the hell did he know?
“How the hell do you know?”
Nick stands up and shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m paid to know.”
I turn around and see the evidence in the kitchen. Foil cartons and white cardboard lids, which I meant to clear up because I wouldn’t actually want any man in my life to know I exist almost solely on Chinese takeaways, I’d want him to think I eat ladylike things like lettuce and smoked salmon, but it’s too damn late.
“Seeing as we might just about be in time to catch last orders,” says Nick, “I thought maybe we could go out for a drink.”
“Sure!” I say enthusiastically, sitting down and pulling my sneakers on. “Where d’you fancy?”
“How about the Westbourne?”
“Great.” So it’s off to the Westbourne we go, and funnily enough the Westbourne is about the first place I’ve been to with Nick where we both feel at home. Enough of a pub to make him relax, and trendy enough—i.e., filled with Notting Hill Trustafarians—to make me relax, so all in all a bloody good choice, I think to myself.
It’s a warm night, so we sit outside at a wooden table, and just as I think we’re having a really nice time, Nick starts sighing again.
“What is it now?”
He sighs.
“Come on, Nick. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”
He sighs again. And then he looks at me.
“I really like you, Libby,” he says, and my heart sinks, because I know what’s coming next. What’s coming next is a But.
“No, I mean I really like you. But . . .” And he stops.
“I really like you too,” I offer lamely.
“I know,” he says. “That’s what worries me.”
Oh shit. Jules got it wrong. He does know, and true to form, he’s backing off. Oh God, why didn’t I play harder to get, why didn’t I pretend to be cool?
“I just don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I like you more than I’ve liked anyone for ages. I mean, over the last year there have been several women I could have got involved with, but I didn’t because I wasn’t ready for a relationship, and I wasn’t ready to get involved with you, but I like you so much I sort of couldn’t help it.”
“Nick,” I say slowly. “You’re being very heavy about this, and this isn’t what we’re about. We’re not having a relationship, we’re just having fun, so what’s wrong with that?”
“But we are having a relationship, you know that.”
There’s no point in denying it because he’s right.
“And what scares me is that I know you need more. I know that at some point in the not too distant future you’re going to want more commitment from me, and I know, quite categorically, that I won’t be able to give it to you, even though I want to, more than anything else in the world, but I’m just not ready.”
What can I say? He’s right again.
He sighs.
“And I like you far too much to hurt you, and I know that inevitably I will.”
“Maybe not.” I bristle. “Maybe I’m not as involved as you think I am.”
“Aren’t you?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Look.” He takes my hand. “You are the best person I’ve met in years, and if I’d met you in a year’s time, or maybe even a few months, I know we could be happy together, but I can’t give you what you need.” He sighs
again. “I haven’t got my life together, and I can’t deal with a relationship until I have. I do want to get my novel published, but I also know that I need some money, some stability, and I can’t keep doing this forever. If I had a publishing deal, or a job, then it would be different, but I need to concentrate on that right now, and it’s simply not the right time for me to have a relationship.”
I think I’m going to start crying, but somehow I manage not to. I think about telling him that I don’t mind, that it doesn’t bother me that he doesn’t have money, that I’m prepared to wait, but I know, deep down, that his mind is made up, and it really wouldn’t make any difference.
“Is this it, then?” I say, in a very small voice, thinking, I knew it. I knew it when we didn’t have sex.
“No,” he sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want to stop seeing you.”
“So do we carry on?” Hope. Light at the end of the tunnel.
“I don’t know. I don’t think we can. But I don’t want to lose you.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” I say, amazed at where this resolve comes from, but praying that if I tell him I’ll never see him again as a friend, he’ll somehow find a way to work through this, to stay with me. “I can’t be your friend,” I continue. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
“I don’t know what to do. What do you think?”
“I think . . .” I stop, and suddenly I feel very grown-up. “I think it’s late. I think we had a late night last night and that we’re both tired, and that everything seems so much worse when you’re tired. I think we should go home, sleep on it, and see how things are in the morning.”
I think I said the right thing, because Nick relaxes and says, “Maybe you’re right. Okay. Shall we go?” And we do.
So we go home, and we make love, and it really is making love, it’s not just sex, because it’s impossibly tender and throughout it all we gaze into each other’s eyes and if I didn’t know better I’d say that a couple of times Nick’s were swimming with tears, but it was truly beautiful, and afterward I thought, how could he give this up? How could he say goodbye to me when we are so damn good together?
And we fall asleep cuddled up, and normally when we do that I move away after about twenty minutes because I can’t stand sleeping that close to someone, I need space to sleep properly, but the next time I open my eyes his arms are still wrapped around me and it’s ten to eight in the morning and I kiss him awake, thinking that last night must have been a bad dream.