Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

  And of course it doesn’t help actually having lunch in Daphne’s, because we’re surrounded by the proverbial ladies who lunch, all immaculate in their little designer suits with their Gucci bags and perfectly streaked blond hair. They all look as if they spend a large part of every day at the hairdresser’s or the manicurist’s, and I feel like an old trollop in my Episode suit that’s trying very hard to be Armani, and my Pied a Terre shoes that would like to come back in another life as a pair of Stephane Kelians.

  “I’m not sure I’d say that,” I say. “We’re just sort of seeing each other.”

  “I think he’s really quite sexy,” says Amanda in a dreamy sort of voice while I look at her in horror.

  “What? That mustache? Sexy?”

  “I don’t mind mustaches,” she says. “Not if they have that much money. But surely if you’re seeing him you must find him sexy?”

  I shrug, because I’m not sure I want to tell Amanda about him kissing me, I’m not sure I trust her.

  “Libby?” she pushes.

  “I don’t really know,” I say eventually. “I’m not sure how I feel about him, but he treats me well and he’s taking me out on Saturday to buy me an outfit for this ball he’s taking me to. To be honest, I’m just enjoying being spoiled, no one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

  “He’s taking you shopping?” Her eyes are wide.

  I nod.

  “Where are you going to go?”

  “I don’t know. You’re probably the best person to ask. Where will I find a black-tie type dress?”

  “Unlimited budget?”

  “Well, not quite,” I laugh. “But something nice.”

  “Why don’t you go to Harvey Nichols? They’ve got a decent evening wear department, and if you don’t find anything you like there, then they’ve got all the designer concessions.”

  “Excellent idea. Harvey Nichols it is.”

  “And I have to tell you, Libby, if you decide you don’t want him, I’ll have him.”

  I laugh, but then I look up and realize that Amanda’s not laughing with me. She has this sort of strange smile on her face, and Jesus Christ, she’s not bloody joking. Oh well, if I decide I don’t want him she can have him. With pleasure. And am I going mad or might the fact that she wants him be making me want him just a teeny bit more?

  On the way back to the office—I get a cab, on expenses, naturally—I decide that I could quite like Ed. Maybe I could even fancy him, and maybe the fact that I’m not thinking about him that much when I’m not with him is a good thing, maybe it means this is a proper relationship, not just lust, or the equivalent to a teenage crush. Because quite frankly I’m sick of falling madly in love and spending twenty-four hours a day thinking about them and crying with misery when they don’t phone. I’m sick of being the kind of girl who, when they say jump, asks how high. I’m sick of always, always being the one to fall in love and get hurt. And maybe this is how it should be, getting on with my life and not putting all my energies into a relationship.

  So when Saturday arrives I’m feeling okay about this. So, fine. I’m not crazy about him, but I am sort of looking forward to seeing him, and I think maybe this could work, maybe he could grow on me, so what I’ve done, in the days that have passed since my lunch with Amanda, is try to picture Ed as being much worse than he actually is. I know that might sound a bit bizarre, but I’ve pictured him as really ugly, his mustache as really big, his laugh really braying, and that way I’m hoping that I won’t be disappointed when I open the door, that I’ll actually be pleasantly surprised.

  And you know what? It bloody works! I open the door and Ed is far, far better than I remember him, and I grin as I take the flowers—lilies this time—and reach up and give him a kiss on the lips.

  Not tongues, okay? I want to enjoy this feeling of appreciating him for a little while, and I’m not ready to take it further. Not just yet.

  “I’ve really looked forward to seeing you,” he says, putting his arms around me and giving me a hug.

  “Good,” I say, as I hug him back.

  I break away and he says, “So have you thought where to go?”

  “Does Harvey Nichols sound okay?”

  “Fine, fine,” he says. “I don’t really know anything about women’s clothes, but if that’s the place to go, then we’ll go there. Have you had breakfast?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why don’t I take you out for breakfast first?”

  “Fine.”

  We drive up to Knightsbridge, park the car, and Ed takes me for yummy scrambled eggs and freshly squeezed orange juice, and I sit there watching all the beautiful people, thinking, I’m okay, I fit, I’m part of a couple.

  Because it’s very obvious that Ed and I are together. He sits gazing at me as I eat, stroking my face, my hair, and I bask in this adoration because it’s so completely new for me. He refuses to let me pay, and quite frankly I’m feeling a bit ridiculous offering, and when we leave he takes my hand and I follow meekly, loving this submissive role of being a wealthy-woman-who-lunches-in-waiting.

  I think we actually look like a pretty good couple. Ed in his casual but still oh-so-smart polo shirt, crisp dark blue jeans and brown suede Gucci loafers (of course I bloody noticed them, what do you think I am, blind or something?), and me in my camel silk trousers, brown mock-croc loafers and white linen shirt. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet acquired lots of chunky gold Italian-style jewelery to complete the look, but I know we look like a young wealthy couple out shopping, we look like we totally belong in Knightsbridge, we look like we do this every Saturday.

  And it gets better! In the evening wear department in Harvey Nichols, Ed walks around silently looking at clothes as the sales assistant—a middle-aged woman bustles around showing me dresses. “Would your husband like this one?” she says at one point, and Ed overhears while I almost faint in alarm, because you should never, ever, bring up the M word, you should never even allow the M word to be mentioned by anybody else when you’re with your new boyfriend, but Ed just smiles at me, a very tender, affectionate smile, and I can’t help it. I grin back.

  “I can see my wife in something like this,” Ed says, and my heart turns over, and then it stops completely when I see what he’s picked out. It’s a twinset taffeta suit. The jacket’s navy, with a nipped in waist and a flared peplum skirt, and the skirt’s probably mid-calf length. It is absolutely disgusting. It’s the sort of thing my mother would wear.

  “Umm, I don’t think that’s quite me, actually,” I say, turning away.

  “Would you just try it on?” he says. “For me?”

  “Okay.” I shrug, and take the outfit into the changing room. Jesus Christ, I look like my mother, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in anything like this. I poke my head round the curtain. “Ed, I don’t think this is quite, er, me.”

  “Let me see. Come out here.”

  I walk out with shoulders stooped, stomach pressed out, trying to look as disgusting as the suit, hoping to put him off.

  “You really hate it, don’t you?” he laughs.

  “I really hate it.”

  “I think it’s rather nice.”

  “Ed . . .” I say in a warning tone.

  “Okay, okay. If you don’t like it, then we’ll find something else.”

  Eight more disgusting taffeta numbers and I’m beginning to lose heart. This was supposed to be fun, but Ed keeps making me try on these revolting, middle-aged, nasty outfits, and I’m beginning to seriously rethink this whole thing.

  And then finally we leave the evening wear department, and, just as we’re walking through the designer section, Ed stops and walks over to Donna Karan. There, on a dummy, is the most beautiful shimmering black dress I’ve ever seen. Long-sleeved, it swoops at the front and sweeps down to the floor in the most gorgeous, slinky, sexy way.

  We both stand there for a while, admiring this dress, and then Ed turns to the assistant, who’s hovering behind us, a bright smile
on her face.

  “Do you have this in a twelve?” he says, bless him, because he’s remembered my size.

  “Certainly, sir,” she says, and smiles at me as she goes to get the dress.

  And finally I feel like a princess. Actually, make that a queen. I stand straight and proud, admiring the way the dress cleverly hugs, but not too tightly, my figure, how it makes me look slim and tall, elegant and sophisticated. I imagine how I’d look with my hair swept up in a chic chignon, with high strappy sandals tripping off my feet, with tiny little diamond studs sparkling in my ears, oops, jumping ahead of myself here. Where on earth would I get diamond studs from?

  I walk out of the changing room, and both Ed and the sales assistant gasp.

  “You look beautiful!” Ed whispers, as the salesgirl just nods in agreement, and it’s not like those times when salesgirls say you look lovely and you know that they say it to everyone, no matter how shit they look; I can see from this girl’s face that she’s as thrilled as I am with how the dress looks, and Jesus Christ, this dress has to be mine.

  “That’s the dress!” Ed says, and I beam as I admire myself in the full-length mirror.

  “I love it!” I say. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.”

  Ed turns to the sales assistant. “Do you take American Express?”

  I go back into the changing room, and I can’t help myself, when I finally tug the dress off I sneak a quick look at the price.

  And I almost faint.

  Fifteen hundred pounds.

  Jesus Christ. What the hell should I do? I don’t think Ed realizes how much it is, and I can’t let him spend this money on me, that’s absurd. That’s the most ridiculous amount of money I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

  The sales assistant pops her head round, smiles at me and takes the dress as I try to look confident, even though I’m standing there in my graying M&S bra and knickers, and then the dress has gone, and I figure that if Ed has a problem with it, he’ll tell me, because he’s going to find out soon enough how much it is.

  I finish getting dressed and walk out of the changing room, and Ed’s sitting in a chair with a big grin on his face. By his feet is a bag, floaty wisps of tissue paper peeking out from the top.

  “There you are, my darling,” he says, handing me the bag. “A beautiful dress for my beautiful Libby.”

  “But Ed,” I say, flushing because I can’t believe he’s done this, and I start to say something about the price, but he stops me.

  “I don’t want to hear another word about it,” he says, so I reach up and kiss him.

  “Thank you,” I say. “No one’s ever bought me anything so wonderful before.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he says. “Now. What about shoes? Do you have shoes?”

  I nod firmly. “Yes,” I say. “I’ve got the perfect shoes.”

  “So do you need anything else?” he says. “While we’re here, what about stockings, or a cape?”

  “Ed,” I say. “It’s fine. I don’t need anything else.”

  “So do you have plans for the rest of the day?”

  I know what he means. He means this evening. And you know what? Fuck it. I don’t mind spending the rest of my Saturday with him, evening included. I mean, Jesus Christ, for £1,500 it’s the very least I can do.

  We go back to Ed’s house, and you know this time, the second time, it doesn’t seem quite so cold and forbidding. I’m beginning to feel quite at home: I even offer to make tea while Ed makes some business calls. While I’m pottering in the kitchen, opening cabinets to find out where everything is, I’m starting to think that I could live in a house like this. I could, in fact, live in this house.

  Oh, for God’s sake, Libby! Stop it!

  But anyway, this feels very cozy. Very coupley. Unbelievable, bearing in mind I hardly know this guy, but I do feel very comfortable with him, surprisingly so, and whether this is because I’m not in love with him and he, I suspect, is crazy about me, I don’t know, but it’s a nice feeling, really. Bit of a new one for me.

  Ed comes down when he’s finished his calls and puts his arms around me in the kitchen, and this time I have to kiss him again, I really can’t get out of it, and while I can’t say it’s exactly amazing, I think it’s a bit better than last time. I’m sure it’s a bit better than last time. Maybe it’s just a question of getting used to it. Maybe it will get better and better.

  “Mmm,” Ed says, burying his face in my neck. “You’re so delicious, I could eat you up.”

  “Speaking of eating,” I say brightly, “have you got any biscuits?”

  Ed looks crestfallen.

  “Cakes?” I say hopefully. “Anything?”

  “Oh dear,” he says. “I’m really sorry, Libby, I don’t have anything at all.”

  “Toast?”

  “Nothing. Look, wait here, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  In a jiffy? In a jiffy? Who the hell says in a jiffy? Before I have a chance to stop him, because I’m not really hungry, it was just a diversionary tactic, Ed’s grabbed his keys and disappeared out the door.

  So what do I do? In normal circumstances I’d do what every girl would do left alone in her new man’s house and start riffling. I’d normally be shuffling papers around, looking for evidence of previous girlfriends, opening drawers, looking in briefcases, but somehow I just instinctively know that Ed’s so honest he doesn’t have anything to hide and I’d be half relieved and half disappointed at not finding anything, so what I do at this present moment is pick up the phone and ring Jules. But I lower my voice just in case he should come back, because I wouldn’t want him to think I’d be so rude as to use his phone without asking.

  “Jules, it’s me.”

  “Hi, babe. Back home already? So? What d’you get? What d’you get?”

  “No, I’m not at home, I’m at his.”

  “Oh. Is he there?”

  “No, he’s gone out to get something to eat.”

  “So?”

  “Jules. You. Are. Not. Going. To. Believe. This.”

  “What? What? Tell me, what?”

  “He has just spent . . .” I pause for a bit of dramatic buildup.

  “What? What?” Jules is practically shouting.

  “One. Thousand. Five. Hundred. Pounds.”

  “Aaaaaaaargh!” Jules screams and drops the phone, and I can hear her doing her little Indian warrior dance in the background.

  She comes back to the phone while I sit there laughing. “Yesssss!” she says. “Yessssss!”

  “He has bought me the most stunning dress you have ever seen in your entire life, and it’s a Donna Karan and I love it and I can’t believe he spent that much money on me and you’ve never seen anything like this dress, and can you believe how much it was, can you believe he spent that much on me!” I pause to take a breath.

  “Fucking hell!” says Jules. “Donna Karan? Fucking hell.”

  “I know, I know. Unbelievable.”

  “So did you kiss him to thank him?”

  “Yes, I did, as it happens.”

  “And?”

  “And it wasn’t so bad.”

  “Oh my God! This is it! You’re going to fall madly in love with him and marry him and we’re going to be your poverty-stricken friends who aren’t good enough to be seen with you.”

  I know what I should say here. I should say that she’s being ridiculous, that of course I’m not going to marry him, that I’ve only just met him, for heaven’s sake, but instead I find myself saying that they’re not poverty-stricken at all, and of course they’re good enough to be seen with me.

  “So you promise you won’t forget me when you’re living in Hanover Terrace with your maid and your butler and everything?”

  “Jules!” I admonish with a laugh, and then, in what I have to say is a very gracious tone, “Stop being so silly.”

  “So what’s Ed getting to eat?”

  “Biscuits, I think.”

  “Hmm. I’ve just had four
chocolate Hobnobs.”

  “Milk or plain?”

  “Milk. But I think it’s okay because I only had a small salad for lunch, so it sort of balances out.”

  “And is everything okay now with you and Jamie?”

  She sighs. “I don’t know. He’s been better recently, but I still think that something’s wrong, but maybe you were right. Maybe I was just imagining it. Anyway, he’s been bringing me the most stunning flowers, so we’ll just have to see.”

  “I told you!” I laugh. “Jamie would never hurt you,” and before I can carry on I hear the front door slam, and I quickly whisper bye and put the phone down as quietly as I can.

  Ed walks in holding a cardboard box in one hand, one of those boxes you get at upmarket patisseries for cakes and things, and in the other is a plastic bag.

  “Ed? What have you been doing?”

  “I didn’t know what you like, so I bought loads of things I thought you might.”

  “Give me that box!” I snatch the box in a most unladylike fashion, and tear off the ribbon to reveal tiny little chocolate eclairs, marzipan animals, strawberry tarts, vanilla slices oozing crème anglaise.

  “Ed! You’ve bought enough to feed an army!” But I’m licking my lips as I say it, and when I look up Ed seems very pleased with himself because he can see how excited I am at the prospect of overdosing on all this cream.

  “I got these as well,” he says, offering the bag, and inside are packets of chocolate chip cookies, Swiss butter biscuits and those fancy oatmeal and chocolate numbers that you find only in very smart supermarkets.

  “Ed!” I start laughing. “I can’t believe how much food you’ve bought.”

  “You do like cream?” he says, sounding worried.

  “Like it? I love it. God, I’m going to get fat being with you.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” he says, putting the bag down and clasping me round the waist. “I’d still think you were perfect.”

  Now surely this man is way too good to pass up?

  Ed doesn’t eat the cream cakes. Nor does he touch the biscuits. It’s only when I’ve eaten so much I feel absolutely sick that I realize this, and when I ask him why he’s not eating he tells me he’s not hungry, and at that precise moment I know that this man would do anything in the world for me, and I understand what an incredibly powerful feeling that is. I hope I don’t blow it by—sick cow that I sometimes am—pushing him to see exactly how much he will take.