by Jane Green
“So you wouldn’t want her to work once she got married?”
He shakes his head. “Do you think that’s too much to ask?”
“No,” I say firmly. “I absolutely agree.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I think it’s appalling that women continue their careers once they’ve had children. A mother ought to be at home with the children. I know too many women whose kids are completely neglected because they seem to be more interested in working late at the office.”
This last bit isn’t completely true, but what the hell, I know I’m on the right track and Ed’s so excited he can hardly contain himself.
“Libby,” he says, taking his eyes off the road and turning to me. “I’m jolly glad I met you. Jolly glad.” And his grin’s so wide for a second I think it’s going to burst off his face.
When we get to the River Cafe, Ed walks up to the girl standing behind the desk at the front and says, “Hello!” in such an effusive tone I figure he must know her, but she stands there smiling awkwardly at him, which makes me think that he’s this overexuberant all the time. “Ed McMann!” he says. “Table for two!”
“Oh, yes,” she says, scanning her list. “Follow me.”
“I hope it’s a good table!” he says to her. “I asked for the best table in the restaurant. Are we by the window?”
“I’m afraid not,” she says. “But you’re as close as we could get you.” And she leads us to a table in the middle of the room.
“Oh, jolly good!” Ed says loudly in his public school accent, and I cringe slightly as I notice how other people in the restaurant are turning to look at where this voice is coming from. “Très bien!” he then says, in a very, very bad French accent, and I can’t help it, I start giggling, because if nothing else he’s certainly a character.
“Umm, you speak French?” I say, as we sit down.
“Mais bien sur!” he says, and it comes out, “May bienne soor,” and I sit there and wish he’d shut up, and then I mentally slap myself for being so nasty, because he’s just a bit eccentric, that’s all, and it’s quite endearing in a weird sort of way, it simply takes a bit of getting used to. That’s all.
And you know what? I have a really nice time. Ed’s quite funny. He tells me lots of stories about investment banking, and admittedly a large part of each story goes completely over my head because investment banking is not exactly a subject I know an awful lot about, but he giggles as he tells them, and it’s quite cute, not to mention infectious, and I find myself giggling with him and I’m quite surprised at how well this evening’s going.
But just because he’s good company doesn’t mean I fancy him, but then maybe fancying someone isn’t what it’s all about? Maybe I’ve been wrong in waiting for that sweep you off your feet feeling, the feeling I had with Nick. And, let’s face it, it didn’t exactly work with Nick, did it, so maybe I’ve been looking for the wrong thing.
Here I am sitting with a man who’s rich, charming, honest and wants to get married. Most women would kill to be sitting where I am right now, and okay, so he’s not really my type, but maybe that could grow?
And as I sit I allow myself to imagine what it would be like kissing him. I picture his face moving closer to mine, and then, yuck! Oh God! That mustache! Yuck yuck yuck!
“Do you cook?” I’m brought back to earth by the sound of Ed’s voice, and I try to push the thought of him kissing me out of my head. Unfortunately, I don’t manage to, but it lodges somewhere near the back, which is okay for now.
“I love cooking,” I say. “But only for other people. I can never be bothered to cook for myself, but my ideal evening would be cooking for my close friends.”
“Gosh!” he says. “You can cook too! Libby, is there anything you’re not good at?”
“Sex?”
“Oh ha ha!” He rocks back in his chair, gulping with laughter. “Hilarious!” And I sit and smile, wondering who on earth this man is, but not in a bad way, in more of an intrigued way, and the bill arrives, which is always a bit of an awkward time because I’m never too sure whether to offer, but this time I decide not to because, after all, Ed did say he was old-fashioned, and anyway with the amount of wine we’ve had to drink, plus the champagne he ordered at the beginning, I couldn’t afford it even if I wanted to. So I sit back and watch as Ed pulls out a platinum American Express card—platinum! I’ve never met anyone with a platinum American Express card before!—and when the waitress takes it away I lean forward and thank him for a lovely evening.
“Libby,” he says earnestly. “The pleasure was all mine. I think you’re fantastic!” And I smile because it feels like a long time since anyone’s thought that about me, and I’m not sure whether anyone’s really felt that way about me, ever. I’m used to being the chaser, the one to fall head over heels in love. I’m the one who’s usually sitting there thinking that they’re fantastic, although I’d never dare say it for fear of scaring them off, and here’s someone who not only thinks it, but has the balls to say it!
I think I could get used to this, and quite frankly if I can’t have Nick, then perhaps I can settle for having someone who completely adores me. Even though he hardly even knows me.
We get back in his car and on the way back we have that whole relationship talk where they ask you why you’re single, when your last relationship was and what the longest relationship you’ve ever had has been, and I say we have that talk but actually that’s slightly wrong—I’m so busy trying to think of how to avoid saying I’m a complete nightmare in relationships because I’m so needy, paranoid and insecure that I forget to ask him anything at all.
But he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he doesn’t say anything as I tell him that I haven’t met the right man yet, that I drifted apart from all my previous boyfriends, and that my longest relationship has been a year (well, okay then, nine months, but he doesn’t have to know that, does he?). I do mention Nick, but I brush over it, brush over the pain that it caused, is still causing, and I do my best to be lighthearted about it, to say it meant nothing.
Ed nods thoughtfully and if I didn’t know better I’d say he was definitely sizing me up for wife material, but maybe that’s a bit ridiculous of me because this is only our first date.
Do I ask him in for coffee? I’m not sure I want him to come in for coffee. I’m not entirely sure how to deal with this whole scenario, but luckily Ed pulls up outside my flat and doesn’t switch the engine off so I assume he’ll be whizzing home.
“Hang on,” he says, leaping out of the car. “I’ll come and get you out.” And he runs around the car and opens the door for me, and against my better judgment perhaps, I wish my mother could see me now!
“May I see you again?” he says and, without even thinking about whether I really want to, I find myself saying yes.
“Are you free tomorrow?” he says eagerly.
“I’m afraid not,” I say, because okay, I’m only going to my parents, but tomorrow feels a bit too soon, and I know that if I were completely crazy about him I’d say of course tomorrow would be fine, but I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about this. Physically he is so not my type that I decide to give myself a few days’ breathing space to think about this one.
“I could do next week, though,” I say. “Tuesday?”
“Marvelous!” he says, without looking at his diary. “I’ll pick you up at eight, how does that sound?”
“Fine,” I say. “And thank you, again, for a lovely evening.”
Ed walks me to my front door, and I turn awkwardly as I put my key in the lock, wondering exactly how to say goodbye, and even as I turn he’s leaning down to give me two kisses on each cheek.
“Again, Libby,” he says, turning to walk back toward the car, “the pleasure was all mine.”
I don’t mean to say anything, really I don’t, but my mother is banging on about me being single again, and before I know it it just slips out that last night I had a date with Ed McMann, and my mother bei
ng my mother knows exactly who Ed McMann is, and she’s so shocked all the color practically drains from her face.
“Not Ed McMann the finance person?”
“Yes, Mum,” I say, and I can’t help the hint of pride in my voice. “Ed McMann the finance person.”
For one ghastly minute I think she’s about to hug me, but thankfully she doesn’t.
“How on earth did you meet him?” she says.
“I met him at Mezzo,” I say. “And he took my number, and he’s been calling ever since.”
“Mezzo?” she says in awe, because my mother, despite never actually leaving suburbia, dreams of doing so on a regular basis, and consequently reads every style magazine on the shelves. She is what we in PR would call aspirational. “What’s it like?”
“It’s fine.” I shrug. “Big.”
“And you met Ed McMann there? Well, Libby, all I can say is this time don’t blow it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Don’t mess this one up. Ed McMann’s very, very rich.”
“God, Mum,” I say in disgust, “is that all you ever think about?”
And the funny thing is that all day Sunday, when I think about my evening with Ed, I find myself smiling, and it’s not a lustful, falling-head-over-heels type of smile, but an I-had-quite-a-nice-time-and-I’m-surprised kind of smile, and although I wouldn’t go as far as saying I can’t wait until Tuesday, I would say that I’m quite looking forward to it because the man’s definitely got something, I’m simply not entirely sure what it is.
And I feel quite grown-up about this. Sure, the fact that Ed’s in his late thirties means I have to be mature when I’m with him anyway, but I feel incredibly grown-up at being able to go out with someone like him, though I don’t feel all those things that I did with Nick.
Even the way my mother already seems to be planning the wedding day doesn’t rile me. In fact, I think it’s quite funny, although I’m not planning on marrying Ed.
Obviously.
“So tell me what he’s like?”
I have my mother’s undivided attention.
“He’s nice.”
“What do you mean, he’s nice? There must be something else you can say about him.”
“Okay. He’s nice, and . . .”—I watch her face closely—“he drives a Porsche.”
She practically swoons before regaining her composure. “A Porsche? What was it like, being driven in a Porsche?”
“Comfortable, Mum. What do you think?”
“So where did he take you?”
“The River Cafe.”
“Ooh. That’s meant to be very expensive. What did you have?”
I tell her, and quite enjoy that she hangs on my every word, and for once I’m getting as much attention as Olly.
“And does he want to see you again?”
I nod. “We’re going out on Tuesday.”
“That’s so exciting! What are you going to wear? For heaven’s sake don’t wear one of those awful trouser suits you always wear. Wear something feminine. Haven’t you got any nice dresses?”
I knew it was too good to last. Here we go again, Libby can’t do anything right.
“My trouser suits happen to be designer, actually,” I say indignantly. “And there’s nothing wrong with them. Everyone wears them.”
“But men like feminine women,” she says defiantly. “They like to see a nice pair of legs.”
I shake my head in amazement. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were still living in the 1950s.”
“That’s as may be,” she says with a sniff. “But I know what men like, and I know they don’t like hard, masculine, career girls.”
Before I get a chance to tell her how ridiculous she’s being, the phone rings. Talk about being saved by the bell. “Olly!” she says. “Hello, darling. How are you?”
I stretch and put my feet on the coffee table as I flick on the TV.
“Hang on. Off!” she says to me, brushing my feet from the table, so just to piss her off I turn the volume up to drown her out.
“Libby!” she shouts. “Turn that down. It’s your brother. From Manchester.”
As if I didn’t know, but I turn it down.
“How’s my gorgeous boy, then?” she says, as I grimace at the TV set. “Oh, Dad and I are fine, but we’re missing you. When are you coming down to see us? I see. No, no, don’t worry, I know how busy you are. How’s the series coming along? You are clever, Olly!”
“You are clever, Olly!” I mimic to myself in what I mean to be a whisper, except she hears and shoots me a filthy look.
“Your sister’s here,” she says. “Yes. Hang on. All right, my darling. I’ll speak to you this week. Big kiss from Dad and I.” And she passes the phone to me.
“Hey, Oll,” I say distractedly, because I’m watching some disgusting outfits being paraded up and down a catwalk on The Clothes Show.
“Hey, big sis. How’s it going?”
“Fine. You?”
“Yeah. Good.”
“How are your friends?”
“What?”
“You know, Oll, your friends.”
“Oh!” He starts laughing. “You mean Carolyn?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“She’s really nice. Can’t quite believe it, I just really like being with her.”
“That’s great, Oll.” I ignore my mum looking quizzically at me, doubtless trying to work out what we’re talking about.
“How ‘bout you? How’s Nick?”
“Finished. Kaput. Over.”
“Oh, Libby, I’m sorry. He seemed like a really nice bloke. What happened?”
I look at my mum, who’s now pretending to be immersed in dusting the side tables, but I know her ears are fully alert.
“Tell you later.”
He laughs. “Mum’s in the room, then?”
“As ever.”
“Anyone new on the scene?”
“Kind of. Had dinner with this guy last night, and he’s nice, but I’m not sure he’s my type.”
My mother raises an eyebrow.
“Anyway,” I continue, “we’ll see.”
“Okay. You should come up and stay here,” he says. “Seriously, it would be so nice to spend some time with you. I haven’t seen you properly, just you and me, for ages.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “That’d be great. I’ll check my diary and let you know.”
We say goodbye and I get up to go.
“What would be really nice?” My mother’s pretending she’s not really interested.
“I might go and stay with Olly,” I say. “He just invited me.”
“Oh, what a good idea!” she says, suddenly beaming. “Maybe Dad and I will come too, we could all get the train up there together. A proper family outing!”
“Hmph.” I shrug. “Maybe.”
On Monday morning Jo buzzes me from reception.
“Jesus Christ!” she says. “You’d better come out here.”
“Why?”
“Just come out here! Now!”
I walk through the office to the reception desk, and there, on the counter, is a forest. Well, okay, not quite a forest, but an arrangement of flowers that’s so big it’s threatening to take over the room.
“Jesus Christ!” I echo. “These are for me?”
“They certainly are,” she says, the grin stretching across her face. “Come on, come on. Open the card. Who are they from?”
I open the card with fingers that are shaking ever so slightly, and I suppose a part of me hopes they’re from Nick, though I know they won’t be, because flowers aren’t Nick’s style, plus he could never afford something like this. These must have cost a fortune.
“ ‘Dearest Libby,’ “ I read out loud. “ ‘Just wanted to thank you for a wonderful evening. Can’t wait until Tuesday. With love, Ed.’ “
“Who the fuck’s Ed?”
“Just an admirer,” I say breezily, skipping back into the office with the flowers and
loving, loving the admiring glances I get on the way.
And I know this might sound a bit stupid, but I’d quite like to send him something in return, even though I know you’re not really supposed to, and it’s not because I desperately fancy him, but because he did a nice thing for me and I’d like to repay him somehow.
And I suppose if I did fancy him I wouldn’t be able to do this, because I’d be far too busy playing games and playing hard to get. But number one, I don’t really care if me sending something to him scares him off, and number two, I’m pretty damn sure it won’t anyway. I suppose it’s sod’s law, isn’t it? The ones that like you are never the ones you’re interested in, and the ones you like are always the bastards. But Ed’s different. I’m not really sure how I feel. I know that I’m not in lust with him, but I also know that I’d like to see him again. I’m just so fed up with being on my own, and Nick may not want me, but Ed certainly does, and that’s a bloody nice feeling. So this is why I want to do something for him.
But what?
I go back out to Jo.
“Okay,” I sigh. “You win. I’ll tell you everything if you help me out,” and I do.
“Got it!” she says when I’ve finally finished, although I didn’t give her the long version, I kept it as short as I possibly could. “Send him a virtual food basket!”
“A what?”
“On the Internet! You can go to these places and send virtual flowers and food baskets, they’re amazing. It’s a seriously cool thing to do, and you’ll probably blow his mind. Hang on. Does he have e-mail?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Check his business card.”
So I run back and get it, and sure enough, there at the bottom is his e-mail address.
“Okay,” says Jo. “Let me just get someone to cover for me, then I’ll show you how to do it.”
Ten minutes later Jo’s sitting in front of the computer, tapping away, and there it is! A site that shows you pictures of flowers and presents which you can send to people.