by Jane Green
But we have a nice evening. To be honest I would be happy staying in, but we’re still in the getting-to-know-you stages, and we’re not quite ready for cozy, coupley evenings in, and as far as I’m concerned those only happen once you’ve slept together, and lovely as I’m beginning to think Ed is, I’m still not ready to sleep with him. Not yet.
So instead of curling up on the sofa and watching a video, we jump in the car and whizz down to the Screen on Baker Street to watch a film, and Ed insists on buying me a huge bucket of popcorn, even though the very thought of food is enough to make me sick after all that sugar, but it’s sweet of him to do it.
And the strangest thing of all is that he is so intent on making me happy, on making sure that I’m all right during every single second that I’m in his company, on really looking after me in a way that no other man has ever done before, that I start thinking that maybe he could be The One after all.
The strangest thing happens later that week. Ed rings me at work and before I know it I’ve agreed to schlepp up to the City to meet him for a quick drink after work.
I get the tube to Moorgate, busily trying to follow the directions he’d given me on the phone, because West London might be fine, but as far as the City’s concerned I may as well be from Spain.
People are milling about, looking as if they all know exactly where they’re going, all wearing a uniform of dark suits and umbrellas, and I feel as if I’ve stepped into an alien world, because even the streets here are a world away from Kilburn or Ladbroke Grove, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air, you can almost smell the money.
Eventually I find Ed’s office, and go through to a smart reception with the ubiquitous black leather sofas and huge glass bowls of lilies on a large polished beech desk.
“May I help you?” says the girl behind the desk.
“I’m here to see Ed McMann,” I say.
“Your name?”
“Oh. Sorry. Libby.”
She smiles and picks up the phone, and a few seconds later directs me through to Ed’s office.
I walk down the corridors, past meeting rooms filled with people deep in concentration, and eventually walk into a huge, open-plan room, with desks and people everywhere. The noise is almost deafening, and everyone seems to be on the phone, which is a bit like being at Joe Cooper, but this is so much bigger.
I stand there for a few seconds, unsure where to go, and then a girl catches my eye, smiles and says, “You look lost.”
“I am,” I say, smiling back. “I’m looking for Ed McMann?”
She points me to the other end of the room, to three offices with closed doors, and I knock on the door with Ed’s name on it and wait for a few seconds until he opens it.
He’s on the phone. His jacket’s off, his sleeves are rolled up, and he’s evidently having an argument with someone. He doesn’t smile, just gestures me in and points to a chair, still talking to the person on the other end of the phone.
I sit and watch him, and suddenly I realize what authority he must have. I had never before thought of Ed as a powerful man, but, listening to his voice, I understand why he has reached the heights he has reached, and why he deserves, at least from his associates, an air of deference.
Because they are deferential. As I’m sitting there, Ed puts down the phone, kisses me, then walks to the door and shouts for someone to come into his office.
A middle-aged man, smartly dressed, walks in, and you can see, instantly, that he is intimidated by Ed. Ed gives him instructions on a deal he is brokering, a deal which, thanks to that last phone call, now appears to be problematic, and the man—Peter—murmurs that he will get on to it immediately.
And I can’t help it. I’m impressed. If you really must know, I’m damned impressed. And it is at precisely this moment that I decide that perhaps this isn’t such a big mistake after all.
The phone’s ringing as I walk in the door, but for a while I have no idea who it is, because all I can hear is sobbing.
“Hello? Hello? Who is this?”
“It’s me,” and between the hiccups and the sobs I recognize Jules’s voice and my face drains of color as I slowly sit down.
“Jules? What’s the matter?”
“I . . .” She can’t speak.
“I’m coming over,” I say, and bang down the phone, grab my keys and head out the door.
Jules looks terrible. Her eyes are so puffy they’ve almost disappeared, and what little I can see of them is red raw. I walk in and put my arms around her, and she leans her head on my shoulder and collapses into a fresh round of tears.
Eventually the tears dissipate into hiccups, and I lead Jules, her shoulders heaving, into the kitchen and sit down on the sofa with my arm around her. I don’t say anything, I just wait for her to talk.
“I don’t know what to do,” she says eventually, her pain almost breaking my heart. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s happened?” Gentle, soothing tone of voice.
“He’s gone,” she says, as the tears start flowing again. “I don’t know what to do.”
An hour later, after countless tears, I have the full story, and it makes me feel sick. Sick, frightened and angry. I had always thought Jules and Jamie were the perfect couple. They had the marriage I aspired to have, the life I had always wanted. They had fulfilled a dream, and now that dream was lying in shreds around our feet.
Jamie, it seems, had walked in last night and said that they needed to talk. Jules had sat there with pounding heart as he told her that he had a confession, that he wasn’t going to tell her, but that it was only fair that she should know. He said that he loved her, that he would never do anything to hurt her, and that he didn’t know what had come over him.
He said that he had been having an affair with Laura, a lawyer he had met, but that it wasn’t meant to be an affair—they had only slept together three times and he had felt so guilty that it was now over.
He said he was telling her because it was over, and because if anything it had made him realize how important Jules was. He couldn’t live with himself anymore, with the guilt, and he hoped she would forgive him, and it would never happen again.
And Jules, apparently, sat there speechless, too shocked to say anything, feeling as if he had walked in and physically kicked her in the stomach.
After the shock came anger, at which point Jules ran to their bedroom and ripped open the cupboard doors, throwing his clothes into a heap and screaming at him to get out.
Jamie had started crying, trying to put his arms around her and telling her that he loved her, that he couldn’t live without her, but Jules kept screaming at him to go. She spent the night pacing round the flat, and now anger has been replaced by desolation, and this is why she does not know what to do.
“I hate him,” she sobs, as she finishes. “I absolutely bloody hate him,” and I feel helpless as I try to comfort her, try to ease her pain.
“Jules,” I say eventually, as once again the crying subsides. “Are you sure this is over, between you two, I mean? Shouldn’t you try and talk about things, give this time?”
There is a silence, and then: “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
“He said it was over with this Laura,” and Jules winces at the mention of her name, but I continue nevertheless, “and he loves you, and is it really worth throwing away your marriage because of a mistake?”
“A huge bloody mistake,” she says. “I don’t know if I can forgive him, if I can ever trust him again.” And I sit there as she lets out the anger, lets out the pain, and I think, if this marriage is over, then perhaps I can no longer believe in the dream at all.
“Oll! What are you doing here?” I fling my arms around Olly, and he scoops me off the ground and swings me round.
“Sorry, sis,” he laughs. “I seem to have a nasty habit of surprising you at the moment.”
“It’s not nasty,” I say. “It’s lovely!” And it’s just what I need to lift my spirits, bec
ause I’ve been feeling almost as emotionally wrecked as Jules. It sounds crass to say that her pain is my pain, but it’s just so fucking awful watching her crumple, and I’m trying to be there for her, trying to look after her, and I’m not complaining, but God, it’s tiring.
My mum stands in the living room watching Olly and I, her face beaming because her beloved son is back home this weekend.
“How long are you down for?”
“Just this weekend, but then I’m coming down soon for a couple of weeks because we’re shooting a load of stuff in London, when I’ll move the team to the London offices.”
“He’s going to stay here, aren’t you, Olly?” says my mum proudly. “It’ll be just like old times having you back here again.”
“Only if you promise to make a fuss of me and spoil me,” says Olly, with a cheeky grin.
“Oh, you,” says my mother grinning, flicking a dishcloth at Olly’s legs.
“I’ve only been here five minutes,” he says to me, “and already she’s trying to feed me up. I think Mum thinks I haven’t eaten since the last time I walked out of this house.”
“It’s not that I think you haven’t eaten,” Mum says. “It’s just what you’ve been eating that concerns me.”
Olly and I catch each other’s eye, and we both suppress a grin because there was no way Mum meant a double entendre, and it’s probably just the way our sick minds work anyway, but I know we’re both thinking the same very rude thing.
“All that junk food, Olly. You need some good old-fashioned home cooking.”
“Mmmmmm,” says Olly, rubbing his stomach. “Does that mean . . .” He looks at her hopefully.
“Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding tonight. Your favorite.”
“Thanks, Mum! What’s for dessert?”
“What do you think?”
“Not spotted dick?”
She nods and smiles a very self-satisfied smile, at least in my eyes, and Olly leaps up and gives her a hug.
“Mum, have I ever told you you’re the best?”
“Oh, it’s nice to see you, Olly.”
I sit there and watch them and wonder how in the hell he does it. How he manages never to put a foot wrong in her eyes. How he teases her and she loves it. He never gets her back up, never upsets her. And part of me, I suppose, is slightly envious of that. Not that I’d want that sort of relationship with her—God no—but I do sometimes wish I had a mother with whom I did have that sort of relationship.
Like Jo, for instance, at work. I know that she and her mum get on like a house on fire. As far as Jo’s concerned, her mum’s a friend who just happens to have given birth to her. They go out shopping together, have dinner together, and whenever Jo has a problem the first person she’ll turn to for help is her mother.
And I’ve seen Jo’s mother. Tall, soigné, elegant, she’s so warm and friendly she just makes everyone fall in love with her. I remember the first time she came into the office to meet Jo for lunch. All the men banged on about how gorgeous she was, and all the women sighed and said they wished they had a mother like that. Especially me.
I’d die if my mother came into the office. Seriously. I’d want the ground beneath me to open and swallow me up. She’d be an embarrassment. The suburban housewife from hell who wouldn’t know what to say to my colleagues or how to say it.
I sigh as she bustles into the kitchen to make some tea, and I settle back into the sofa with Olly.
“So how’s Carolyn?”
“She’s fine,” he says.
“Still going strong?”
“Yeah, I know. Amazing. It’s still going strong.”
“So what’s her secret?”
“I don’t know really . . .” Like a man would ever take the time to analyze, but then Olly surprises me. “I think the thing is that she doesn’t make any demands on me. Usually after a few weeks women start expecting things from you. They want to see you more and more often, and then they get pissed off when you’re out with the boys, stuff like that. But Carolyn’s really laid-back. She’s happy to get on with her own life, and it’s just really comfortable and relaxed, because I know she doesn’t expect to see me all the time.”
“So how often are you seeing her?”
“Well, actually,” he laughs, “I suppose I am seeing her a lot, but that’s because she’s so easy to be with. And when I’m not with her she’s out with her friends.”
“That’s brilliant, Olly,” I say, and I wonder whether I could ever be more like Carolyn, whether I could be laid-back, low maintenance, but then I suppose I am like that with Ed. I’m really not that bothered about where he is when he’s not with me, so maybe I’ve become a Carolyn after all.
“And you really like her?”
“I really like her. So what about you, Libby? What’s going on with men in your life? Any action?”
“Yes, there is. Remember I told you about that guy I had dinner with?”
“Yup.”
“I’m still seeing him, and he’s really nice.”
“Tell me about him.”
“His name’s Ed, he’s thirty-nine—”
“Thirty-nine? Isn’t that a bit old for you?”
“Nah, I like older men.” As it happens I’ve never liked older men before, but there’s something quite sophisticated about being the sort of woman who likes older men, and if I’m ever going to get the lifestyle I want I’m going to have to go for older men, because no one my age would have enough money.
“So go on.”
“He’s an investment banker . . .”
Olly lets out a high whistle. “Shit. He must be loaded.”
“He is,” I say, smiling happily. “But more important he’s really nice to me, he treats me like a queen.”
“You really like him?”
“Ye-es,” I say. “I do really like him. The only thing is I’m not sure how much I fancy him, but I think I’m beginning to, so that’s okay.”
Shit. My bloody mother overheard that last bit.
“You don’t know whether you fancy him? Fancy him? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous, Libby. Since when do you have to fancy someone? It’s not about fancying someone, it’s about liking them and getting on with them. None of that fancying stuff lasts anyway, and do you think in my day we married people because we fancied them? D’you think I fancied your father?”
Olly and I both grimace. Not a thought I particularly want to dwell on, I have to say.
“It’s Ed McMann, Olly,” my mother says. “He’s very rich and very nice, and Libby’s worried about whether she fancies him or not. Honestly. I just don’t know what to do with you sometimes.”
“How do you know he’s very nice?” I taunt. “You’ve never met him, he could be a complete bastard for all you know.” Like Jamie, I think. And much as I hate to admit it, I think that my mother may be right, because Jules fancied Jamie. Jules thought she’d have a happy ending. Maybe it’s not about fancying after all.
“I won’t have that language in my house, Libby, and I’ve heard he’s very nice.”
“Oh right. Of course. Because you do mix in the same social circles.”
My mother harrumphs and walks back into the kitchen.
“What was all that about?” Olly’s looking confused.
“You know Mum. She’s decided that come hell or high water I’m going to marry Ed, because he’s rich and because she can boast to all her friends.”
“Uh-oh,” he says. “Sounds like you’re in trouble. So when am I going to meet this Ed?”
My mother’s back in the room, evidently having forgotten my last sarcastic remark.
“Ooh, I’d love to meet him too,” she says, eyes brightening at the thought, any sarcasm forgiven.
“I think it’s a little bit early on to start introducing him to my parents,” I say, feeling physically sick at the thought.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “If he’s as nice as you say he is then he’d be delighted to meet us.”
“I don’t think so, Mum,” I say. “Look, Olly, I’ve got to go.” Even the added attraction of Olly being there doesn’t make me want to stay in this house a second longer than is absolutely necessary. “Why don’t you come with me and we can have a drink?”
“Olly’s staying here,” my mum says firmly. “And where are you going that’s so important?”
“To Ed’s,” I lie, knowing that this will be the one thing she won’t try to stop.
“How lovely,” she trills. “Ask him if he’d like to come over for dinner.”
“Yeah, really,” I mutter, kissing her goodbye.
And when I get home there’s a long, rambly message on my machine from Ed, and I ring him back, and he’s so pleased to hear from me it’s really sweet. And he asks me about my day, and I tell him I’ve just got back from my parents. Ed says he’d love to meet my parents.
“You are joking?”
“Of course not. Why would I joke about something like that?”
“Oh. Funnily enough my mum was saying the same thing.”
“Well, there you are, then. Why don’t we all go out for dinner this week?”
“Ed,” I say slowly, not quite knowing what to say next. “Let’s just wait until after the ball, okay?”
“Fine, fine. But I would like to meet them.”
“Umm, don’t you think that, umm, it might be a little soon? I mean, we haven’t been seeing each other very long.”