Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

  I know she’s right, it’s just that I don’t want any other men at the moment, I just want Nick.

  “And,” she continues, “he’ll probably take you somewhere fantastic, he’s obviously loaded.”

  “How can you tell?”

  She looks at me in dismay. “Libby, everything I know I learned from you. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the Rolex?”

  I shake my head.

  “The Hermès tie?”

  I shake my head.

  “The Porsche key ring?”

  I shake my head.

  “Maybe I will go out for dinner with him,” I say, suddenly quite liking the idea of being driven around in a Porsche. “But just dinner. That’s all.”

  Jules sits there and smiles to herself, and I give her a look.

  “I know you so well,” she chuckles, and I can’t help it, I start laughing too.

  The good mood lasts precisely as long as it takes me to get back to the flat. I open the front door and turn on the lights, kick off my shoes, and as I walk around I start fighting off the memories of Nick that seem to be everywhere I look.

  The sofa where we curled, that first night, when he came back after Sal’s get-together. The bath where he sat in that ridiculous bath hat. The bed. Oh my God. The bed.

  I sink to the floor, tears streaming down my face, and I curl up, hugging my knees to my chest, crying like a baby.

  Why did this have to happen to me? Why can’t this work? I try to remember what Nick said, why it’s ended, because it doesn’t make sense. How can you like someone, I mean really like them, and still want to end it? He said it might have worked if we’d met in a few months’ time, so maybe it could work now, maybe I could change his mind.

  I stop thinking properly. I stand up, wipe the tears from my eyes and grab my car keys. The only thing that will make this better is seeing Nick. I have to see him. Talk to him. Make him see that this can work, that I don’t care about his job, his money, because suddenly I don’t. All that matters to me right now is being with him, working things out, and the only way I can do this is to go to him.

  I climb in the car, filled with resolve, so intent on making this work that I forget to cry, I concentrate on maneuvering the car through London’s streets, until eventually I pull up outside Nick’s flat in Highgate.

  I sit for a while in the car, suddenly unsure about ringing his bell, about actually confronting him, but I’m here now, and this is the only way, and I know that I don’t believe it’s over, I won’t believe it’s over, until I can talk to him face-to-face, and if he sees me, if he sees what he’s doing to me, he’ll change his mind. He has to.

  Nick takes forever to answer the door. At one point I start turning back, feeling absolutely sick at what I’m doing, rethinking the whole thing, but just as I turn I hear a door upstairs, and then the soft clump of footsteps coming down the stairs.

  The door opens and there he is. His hair mussed up, his eyes half closed with sleep, and he is obviously shocked to see me standing there.

  We look at each other while I try to find the words, the words that will bring him back, but nothing comes out, and I try to blink back the tear that squeezes itself out of the corner of my right eye.

  “Libby,” he whispers, as he puts his arms around me, and I can’t help it. I break down, sobbing my heart out because as he stands there with his arms around me, gently rubbing my back, I know that this is pointless, that I am making a fool of myself, that nothing will change his mind.

  “You’d better come upstairs,” he says eventually, gently disengaging himself and leading me upstairs by the hand, while I try to wipe my face.

  We sit in silence for a while, me on the armchair, Nick on the futon, and all I want to do is climb into the futon with him and cuddle him, make everything okay, turn the clock back to how it was the other night. I can’t believe things can change so quickly. I can’t believe that I am no longer allowed to do this because it’s over, and as I start to think about it the tears roll down my face again.

  “God, Libby,” Nick whispers. “I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “I don’t understand,” I blurt out. “You said if we met in a few months it would be okay, we could be together, so I don’t understand why we can’t just carry on.”

  Nick doesn’t say anything. “I don’t care about the money,” I sniffle, my voice becoming louder, almost as if he will understand me better if I shout. “I don’t give a damn about you not having a job. We’re so good together, Nick, why do you have to do this? Why can’t we just carry on?”

  “This is why,” he says gently. “Because neither of us was supposed to get emotionally involved. I never wanted to cause you any pain, and it’s killing me to see you like this.”

  “So why are you causing me this much pain?” I look up at him, not caring that the tears are now flowing freely down my face. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Libby,” he says, coming over and crouching down so that his face is level with mine. “I told you from the beginning I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I knew you were getting more involved, but I tried to deny it because I knew I couldn’t give you, I can’t give you, what you want. I’m just not ready. I am so sorry.”

  “Okay,” I snuffle, regaining some small measure of composure. “So you can’t give me what I want. So what? So now I know. Let’s carry on anyway. You can’t hurt me more than you already have, and now I know exactly where I stand, so I don’t see why we can’t keep seeing each other, not when we get on so well, when things are so good between us.” I am trying to bring him closer, to draw him in through talking to him, but it seems that the more I talk, the more distance there is between us.

  “No, Libby.” He shakes his head sadly. “I want to, but I can’t put you through this again, and it will happen again, because I can’t commit to anyone right now. And even though you say that it doesn’t matter, I know that that’s what you’re looking for, and it couldn’t work. Believe me,” he says softly, touching my cheek, “if I were to commit to anyone it would be to you, but I’m just not ready.”

  The tears dry up as I realize that I cannot persuade him. That his mind is made up. That now there is no doubt that it really is over. I stand up and go to the door, trying to regain some self-respect, although even I know it’s a little late for that.

  “I’ll call you,” Nick says, walking down the stairs behind me as I head for the front door, feeling like nothing is real, like this is all a horrific nightmare. I don’t bother saying anything. I just walk out and somehow manage to make it home.

  “What did you do this time?” My mother’s looking at me, and it’s all I can do not to jump up and scream at her because this is absolutely typical, it’s always my bloody fault. My mother would never stop to think that perhaps there was something wrong with these men, oh no. It’s always that I’ve put them off.

  “Did you come on too strong?” she says, and I wish, oh how I bloody wish, I’d never mentioned anything. I wasn’t planning to, really I wasn’t, but then my mother seems to have some sort of psychic sixth sense, and she could see something was wrong, and before I knew it, it just came out. That I’d split up with Nick. Although I omitted the part about turning up at his flat. That’s something I’m trying hard to forget.

  And yes, I regret it. I regret it because I allowed him to see me at my most vulnerable. I laid all my cards on the table and he swept them away without a second glance. In the few days since it happened, I’ve tried not to think about it, because the only thing I feel when I remember laying myself open in the way that I did is shame. Pure and absolute shame.

  “No,” I say viciously. “I did not come on too strong. He just doesn’t want a relationship, okay?”

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t want a relationship? Since when does any man want a relationship?” She snorts with laughter at her little joke, and I look at her, wondering when in hell my mother became such an expert at relationships? I mean, she’s only ev
er been with my dad, for God’s sake. No one else would have her.

  “You know you have to play hard to get, Libby. None of this jumping into bed on the first night and being there whenever they want you.”

  How the fuck would she know?

  “You nineties women, I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “You all think that everything’s equal now, but, when it comes to matters of the heart, it most certainly isn’t. Men haven’t changed: they love the thrill of the chase, and if you hand yourself over on a plate they’ll lose interest. Simple as that.”

  “It’s not like that, Mum,” I say through gritted teeth. “It had nothing to do with that.”

  “I know you think I’m just your mum and I don’t know anything, but let me tell you, I watch Vanessa, and Ricki, and Oprah, and you girls all say the same thing, and the answer’s as clear to me as anything. You have to play hard to get, it’s the answer to all your problems.”

  “Mum, you really don’t know what you’re talking about. Watching a few daytime telly shows does not make you an expert on relationships.”

  “That’s what you think,” she says firmly. “And anyway I’m not saying I’m an expert, all I’m saying is that I can see what you’re doing wrong.”

  That’s it. I’ve had enough. Again. “Why is it always me who’s doing something wrong?” I practically shout. “Have you ever considered the fact that it might be men who have the problem? No, no, how stupid of me, of course it’s my fault. It’s always my bloody fault.”

  “No need for that sort of language,” my mum says. “But have you ever considered why you’re still single at twenty-seven?”

  “It’s only twenty-seven, for God’s sake! I’m not exactly forty, I’ve got years.”

  My mum shakes her head sadly. “No, Libby, you haven’t, not if you want to get married and have children, and I think it’s high time you stopped and had a good long look at yourself and how you are with these boyfriends.”

  “You’re amazing.” I shake my head in disbelief. “Most girls my age would kill to have my life. I’ve got a flat, a great job, a car and plenty of disposable income. I’ve got a busy social life, hundreds of friends, and I meet celebrities every day.”

  “Fine,” says my mother. “Fine. But I don’t see any of these celebrities proposing to you, do you?”

  “Can you not see that having a man is really not that important these days? That I’m far happier being a . . . a Singleton.”

  “A what?”

  “Someone who’s happier being single with no attachments.”

  “Libby, dear,” she says patronizingly. “You know that’s not true and I know that’s not true.”

  Why does she always have to have the last bloody word? And what’s more, the nasty old cow is right. Well, right about me not liking being single, I really don’t know about the rest of that stuff, and even if she were right, I certainly wouldn’t tell her.

  “Mum, let’s just drop it,” I say, getting up to go.

  “Oh, you can’t go,” she says. “You’ve only just got here. And I’m concerned about you, Libby, you look as if you’ve put on a bit of weight.”

  Jesus Christ. Talk about knowing where to hit the weak spot. And so what if I’ve put on a bit of weight, it’s not like I’m huge or anything, but I’ve always strived to be seven pounds thinner, and trust my mother to notice that in the few days since that night at Nick’s flat I’ve been eating like a pig, although I decided this morning that that was going to stop. Definitely.

  “I haven’t put on weight,” I say, although I know from the scales that I’m four pounds heavier.

  “Okay, okay,” she sighs. “I simply don’t want you to get fat, I’m only saying it for your own good.”

  “Look. I’m going.”

  “Not just yet.” She stands up. “Tell you what, I’ve got some of your favorite caramel cakes here, why don’t I just go and get them?”

  “You just told me I’d put on weight!”

  “One won’t hurt you.” And she bustles off.

  Please tell me I’m not the only one with a completely mad, insensitive mother. Please say that all mothers are like this, that I’m not the only one who goes through hell every time she goes home to see her parents. I don’t even know why I bloody go. Every weekend I’m expected for tea on Sunday, and every weekend I turn up, behave like a pissed-off teenager and run away as fast as I can.

  Maybe I should do what Olly did. Maybe I should move to Manchester.

  She comes back and puts a plate of caramel cakes on the table, and to piss her off I refuse them and tell her I’m on a diet.

  “Have just the one,” she says. “Look, I’ll share one with you,” and she picks one up and takes a bite, handing me the other half.

  “I. Don’t. Want. It,” I say through gritted teeth. “Okay?”

  “Libby, I wish you wouldn’t always take offense when I try to help.” She sighs and looks at me with those mournful eyes, and if I didn’t know better I’d start feeling sorry for her. Fortunately, I know better.

  “I’m your mother and I want what’s best for you, and I’m only saying these things because I’ve got the benefit of experience and I can see things from a different perspective, that’s all. And there’s nothing I’d love more than to see you happy and with a good man.”

  I huff a bit but I don’t say anything, and after a while she sighs again and evidently decides to give up on this particular line of conversation.

  “Spoken to Olly recently?” she asks after a long silence.

  Hmm. Now this would really get to her, if I told her that yes, actually, I had just spoken to him, I’d seen him, and not only that, I’d met his girlfriend, Carolyn. What, Mum? You didn’t know he had a girlfriend? You didn’t know he was in London? Gosh. I am surprised.

  But no, I couldn’t do that. Much as it would satisfy me to upset Mum right now, I couldn’t do it to Olly, so I just nod and say we had a chat the other day.

  “Did he mention anything to you about a girlfriend?” she says, trying to sound as if she doesn’t care either way, and this is a bit odd because I’m sure Olly wouldn’t have told her.

  “Why?” I say carefully, not wishing to be drawn into a trap.

  “Oh, no reason,” she says lightly. “Only he mentioned he was going away for the weekend and wouldn’t tell me who with, so I wondered if he might have some special lady friend.”

  “If he has he hasn’t told me,” I lie, knowing that Olly would do his damnedest to keep Carolyn away from Mum, because, as far as Mum’s concerned, no one’s good enough for her darling son. Not that she’d ever say it out loud, she’d just come out with the odd well-aimed dart, something like, “It’s a very interesting accent, darling. Whereabouts in London did you say she came from?” or “I’m sure it’s all the rage now, but honestly, darling, her skirt was so short you could practically see her undies.”

  Believe me, I’m not making it up, she has actually said these things, and Olly does his best to ignore them, but somehow once she’s said something he starts noticing it too, and Sara went out the window not long after Mum implied she was common, and Vicky? Well, even I had to admit that Vicky was a bit provocative. Dad loved her, though. Needless to say.

  “I hope if he is with someone she’s the right kind of girl.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Olly’s a good boy, he deserves someone very special, not like those other girlfriends he’s paraded through here over the years.”

  Bloody typical.

  “Mum,” I say, standing up and giving her the obligatory peck on the cheek. “I really am going now.” And finally, thankfully, I manage to get away.

  “Right,” says Jules, curling up on my sofa, pen poised in hand. “You have to be completely honest, and I mean completely. I want to hear everything that you’re looking for.”

  “But I’m not looking, Jules, I want some time out from relationships, I just want to be on my own for a bit.”

&
nbsp; “Okay, so in that case just tell me what your dream man is like.”

  I shrug. “He’s tall, about six-one, and he’s got light brown, no, make that dark brown hair.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Green.”

  “Would he look like anyone famous? Mel Gibson?”

  He’d look like Nick, I think sadly, pushing that thought away almost as quickly as it appears. “Eugh, no. No. Let me think. Who do I like? I know!” I shout. “Tom Berenger.”

  “Who’s Tom Berenger?”

  “The actor, Platoon? Someone to Watch Over Me?”

  Jules shakes her head, but writes his name down anyway.

  “Okay,” she says. “What else?”

  “He’s got to be rich, seriously rich. He’d live in one of those huge stucco houses in Holland Park, but not a flat, it would be a whole house, and he’d rattle around in it waiting for his wife and her interior designer best friend to come and redo it all.”

  “Mmm,” laughs Jules. “Now that I like the sound of.”

  “He’d probably be a businessman, he’d have his own business, God knows at what, and he’d drive a Ferrari.”

  “Bit flash, isn’t it?”

  “Okay. A Mercedes SLK.”

  Jules nods and writes it down. “Just the one car, then?”

  “Good point. No, he’d have the Merc, and a Range Rover for weekends at his country pad, and he’d buy me that new BMW, you know, the sporty one, what is it, an F3 or a Z3 or something?

  “He would have to wear beautiful navy suits for work, but then when he’s at home he’d be in really faded 501s and polo shirts, oh, and leather trousers because he’d have a motorbike as well.”

  “What kind of motorbike? A Harley?”

  “Nah, way too common. An Indian.”

  “Okay.” She keeps scribbling, and I hug my knees to my chest, wondering what else I can say about my dream man, because I love playing these fantasy games.

  “I can’t think of what else to say.” I sit and think for a while.

  “Er, Libby?” Jules looks up.