by Jane Green
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“And have you taken a hot-water bottle? You know how these country mansions can get very drafty at night.”
Typical. In the past, if ever my mother has had an inkling of me sleeping with a boyfriend before at least six months, she’s gone bananas, and now she’s practically encouraging it, and it’s been, what? Two weeks?
“No, Mum,” I sigh wearily. “I’m sure they’ll have central heating. Look, I really have to go.”
“All right, darling. Have a wonderful time, and ring me tomorrow and tell me everything.”
“Yeah, Mum. I will.”
As if.
Thank God, no flowers this time. And Ed doesn’t say I look beautiful, because I’m just in my everyday clothes, my Donna Karan special in a zipped-up hanging cover, and I know this may sound crazy, but Ed seems ever so slightly nervous, which I find odd in a man who’s so wealthy and sophisticated.
“Are you nervous?” I venture, as we set off from Ladbroke Grove.
“A little.” He turns to me and grins. “Are you?”
“A little. But why are you nervous?”
He shrugs. “I really want you to like my friends, that’s all.”
Thank God for that. For one horrible minute there I thought he was worried about his friends liking me, worried that they might see beyond my designer dress to the not-nearly-good-enough suburban girl lurking just beneath the surface.
I know my mother spent her whole life telling me this is what she was raising me for, but the truth is I’m not sure how comfortable I am around these people, and chameleon woman that I so evidently am, I’ve raised my accent a few notches just to make absolutely sure I fit in.
And for a second, as we drive through Putney, I think that actually I’d be much happier going to the pub with Nick, although I know that isn’t strictly true.
I suppose, what I’d really like is a man who can fit into both worlds. Who’s just as happy going to a smart ball as going to the local Italian pizza joint (not pubs, never pubs). But if I really have to make a choice, then I’d have to choose the ball.
Wouldn’t I?
God, would you listen to me? My entire life I’ve dreamed of finding a man like Ed, and now I have I’m starting to think that maybe I don’t want this after all. Which is ridiculous. Because I’ve always wanted this, and I will make this work. I bloody will.
After a while Ed puts some music on—classical, naturally, and we sit there in this comfortable silence, and it is comfortable, and this feels so much nicer than the times I’ve spent with men in the past, desperately trying to think of something to say to fill the silences.
And finally we take an exit off the A3 and wind our way down country roads, as Ed tells me about the ball they had last year, and how wonderful it was, except that he didn’t have anyone to share it with then, and how happy he is that I’m with him now.
We pull off the road and eventually come to a halt outside a pair of tall, black iron gates, and Ed speaks into an intercom, the gates open, and we’re on a magnificent sweeping driveway, and I’m so impressed, and suddenly so nervous I can hardly speak.
Ed gets out of the car and comes round to open the door for me, which is really rather stupid because it’s not like I can’t get out of the car myself, but Ed seems to think this is the way to treat women, and as I take his hand and step out of the car I feel somewhat princesslike, and we both turn as a couple come walking out of the huge, heavy oak front door.
“Ed!” says the petite, blond woman, who turns out to be Sarah, one half of Sarah and Charlie, and I’m quite surprised because she’s not in designer togs at all. In fact, and I know it’s only four o’clock, she looks a bit of a mess.
“Sarah!” he says, giving her a kiss on each cheek as she looks interestedly over his shoulder at me, standing there awkwardly smiling because I’m not sure what else to do.
He shakes hands with Charlie and turns to me.
“This is—”
“Libby,” says Sarah warmly, coming over to shake my hand. “I am so delighted to meet you. We’ve heard all about you.”
“We certainly have,” echoes Charlie, coming over to give me a huge kiss on the cheek. “Let me take your bags.”
Uh-oh. Here it is. That bedroom moment. And I don’t know why, but I’m vaguely disappointed that there isn’t a butler or someone to carry my bags. I mean, if you’re going to live in a place this stately, you may as well do it properly.
Charlie and Ed lag behind as Sarah leads me up this, well, the only word for it would be magnificent, staircase, as I wonder what on earth I’m going to do.
“So how long have you known Ed?” She turns with a warm smile.
“Not long,” I venture. “Only a few weeks.”
“He seems to be completely smitten.” She winks, stops and opens a door. “We thought you might like this bedroom.”
I walk in, mouth wide open, because I can’t believe how beautiful it is. There’s a huge oak four-poster bed, and for a moment I’m so taken in with the splendor of the damn thing I forget to think, fuck! Double bed.
“We’ve put Ed next door,” she whispers, as the men approach. “We weren’t sure . . .” She tails off as I breathe a sigh of relief and grin.
“That’s perfect,” I say, feeling as though I want to hug her. “Thank you.”
She puts a hand gently on my arm and squeezes it. “I completely understand,” she says. “It must be terribly daunting for you, having to meet all these strange people.”
“You’re not strange,” I say, smiling, and she laughs.
“Come down when you’re ready,” she says. “We’ll have tea.” She turns and goes, and Ed comes in and gives me a hug.
“She’s lovely,” I say into his shoulder.
“I know,” he says. “I knew you’d like them.”
And then, naturally, insecurity hits.
“Do you think they liked me?”
“Of course they liked you,” he guffaws. “How could they not?”
Thankfully he doesn’t then expect me to engage in a passionate embrace, he just lets me go and says, “Shall we go down for tea in fifteen minutes?”
“Sure,” I say, nodding, and Ed leaves the room and closes the door behind him.
I bounce up and down on the bed a few times, because this is what they do in the films when they walk into a fabulously sumptuous bedroom, and then I wonder what it is I’m supposed to do for the next fifteen minutes. I hang my dress in the wardrobe and then touch up my makeup, and there are still ten minutes to go, and no television to pass the time.
But on the side table I discover a host of glossy women’s magazines, and I’m leafing through them, about to read an article on how women know When It’s Right, when I hear a soft knock on the door, and Ed and I walk down for tea.
I’m introduced first to a large blue and yellow parrot squawking in a cage in the corner of the living room. Charles, “the cynical parrot,” as he’s described, has apparently perfected his speech when it comes to insults, but the only thing he says as I bend down to cluck at him is “Have a cup of tea,” and, relieved, I leave him to go and meet everyone else in the room.
I suppose I was half expecting to hate his friends. I knew they were all much older than me—and, judging by Sarah and Charlie, who must be in their forties, most of them are, but I also thought they’d be those really English county types, who would look down their noses and be incredibly snotty to someone like me, but I was completely wrong.
We walk into the room and I’m dreading it, but as Sarah introduces me as “Ed’s friend,” with, incidentally, no special emphasis on the “friend,” everyone is just incredibly friendly, and no one is nearly as smart or as intimidating as I’d feared.
In fact, I’d go as far as saying they all seemed very down-to-earth, and the only thing I found strange was mixing with people who were almost old enough to be my parents, but I’m mature enough to handle that.
I don’t want to e
mbarrass myself by scarfing, so I settle into an old sofa (and, not wishing to sound like my mother, but haven’t they heard of Dustbusters? Couldn’t they have hoovered, somehow, the dog hairs off the sofa?) and nibble daintily at a cucumber sandwich as Julia (one half of Julia and David) sits next to me and makes small talk.
“It’s lovely to see Ed with someone,” she says finally, after we’ve discussed PR versus being a housewife, which is what she is, we’ve both agreed that the grass is always greener, how she’d kill for my “exciting, glamorous” lifestyle, and how I think hers sounds like complete bliss.
“We’re so used to Ed turning up on his own to these annual balls, and he’s such a good chap, we’ve always wondered why he’s never found himself someone lovely,” she continues. “But now, it seems, he has.”
I laugh. “Well, I don’t know about that. It’s very new. We’re really just, umm, friends, right now.”
“But from what I hear Ed’s quite serious about you.”
Should she be quite so candid? I mean, she hardly knows me.
I smile again. “We shall see,” I say mysteriously, because I don’t know quite what else to say.
I notice that the men seem to be on one side of the room, presumably discussing business, because occasionally I hear the odd “equity,” “made a mint,” “gilt-edged securities,” while the women sit on my side of the room talking about the best places to shop in “town.” Town being London.
“You’re ever so lucky, Libby,” says Sarah, moving to sit closer to me. “Libby lives in London,” she explains to the rest of the women. “We have to make a particular journey whenever we want to buy anything special.”
“Where do you live?” says a youngish woman who, I think, is called Emily, but I can’t quite remember.
“Ladbroke Grove,” I say, wishing I could say Regent’s Park, or Knightsbridge, or Chelsea, and at the same time wishing it didn’t matter, wishing I didn’t still feel I had to impress these people. Among my friends I’m pretty damn proud of living in Ladbroke Grove, because it’s trendy, but here, with Ed’s friends, I know it’s not even nearly good enough.
“How lovely,” says Julia. “That’s bang next door to Notting Hill, isn’t it, and there are so many wonderful places in Notting Hill. Tell me, do you go to the Sugar Club?”
“Yes,” I say, my face lighting up because I have actually been there. Once. “I go there all the time.”
“Lucky you,” they all coo. “Having all those wonderful places right on your doorstep.”
And then the talk disintegrates into schools that their children go to, so I put down my cup of tea and wander on to the terrace, and sitting on the low brick wall that looks out on to sweeping gardens I wonder what Nick would think if he could see me now.
I turn as a hand rubs my back, and Ed leans down and plants a kiss on my cheek, and what’s really sweet about this is that it’s in full view of all his friends, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and I think about all the men who have warned me about public displays of affection, and I look at Ed and wonder whether, if he was a bastard to me like all the others, I might like him better.
Except the thing is that I’m feeling very comfortable here, with his friends, and I think I am growing to like him more, for obviously hinting that we would want separate bedrooms, for not having sex as the first and only thing on his mind, for introducing me to this incredible lifestyle, for treating me like a goddess.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” he says. “I could show you the grounds.”
I nod and link my arm through his, and his face lights up at my spontaneous display of tenderness, and he strokes my hand through his elbow. “I don’t want you to get cold,” he says. “Shall I go and get your jacket?”
“Don’t worry.” I lean up and give him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be fine.”
At seven o’clock everyone disappears to their respective bedrooms to get ready, all having been given strict instructions to be downstairs at eight-thirty.
And so much for cold, drafty corridors and seeking bathrooms. My room is lovely and warm, and I have an en suite bathroom, which Sarah has filled with delicious smelling bubble baths and soft, thick towels.
I soak for ages, right up until the water is practically cold, and grin to myself as I think where I am, who I’m with, and when I start shivering I consider running some more hot water in the bath, but don’t, because they probably won’t have enough to go round, and I get out, carefully, so as not to soak the floor, and go into the bedroom to try and reposition the dressing table mirror to give me enough light to do my makeup perfectly.
And finally, at 8:30P.M., when I’ve just clipped on the tiny diamante studs, which, I’m sure, if you didn’t look that closely, you might mistake for the real thing, there’s a knock on my door and Ed’s standing there in a dinner jacket.
Neither of us says anything for a while. I’m just so impressed with the difference black tie can make on a man. He looks, well, the word that springs to mind is powerful. He looks like a real man, and that’s when I realize that up until now I’ve only ever been out with boys, and something about him looking like a real man makes me feel incredibly feminine, and eventually Ed is the first to speak.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers. “Absolutely beautiful. Stunning. You’ll be the most beautiful woman at the party.”
There. He said it, didn’t he? Woman. Not girl.
“You look lovely yourself,” I say, grinning. “All dark and sexy and mysterious.” I don’t mention that the mustache ruins the effect somewhat, because I think I might just about be getting used to it . . . as long as it doesn’t get too close to me.
And we walk down the staircase, my hand resting gently on his arm, and maybe I’m imagining it, but I do seem to be wearing the most stunning dress here, and we walk down to meet all those upturned faces, doubtless wondering who this girl is with Ed, and I do feel, for perhaps the first time in my life, truly, truly, beautiful.
We have an incredible evening. And though I can safely say that the people are slightly older than those I would normally socialize with, they are all so warm and friendly that after a while I start to forget the age difference.
The champagne helps of course.
And God, the champagne. And the food. And the thousands of tiny white fairy lights sprinkled around the trees surrounding the terrace. And the music. And the fact that I am high on the champagne, on the glamour, on the excitement of being at a party that truly looks like something you would see in a Hollywood movie, or perhaps because of the British accents, in a Merchant Ivory film.
It feels like the kind of party that I would only ever go to once in my life, because it is all so magical, and so beautiful, and so special, it could never be re-created. Except, of course, with Ed there would be parties like this all the time.
And the more champagne I drink—which, let me tell you, is a hell of a lot, because every time my glass is half empty a waiter-type person appears at my side as quietly as a ghost and refills it—the more attractive Ed becomes.
And at around one o’clock in the morning I’m thinking, yes. Yes. Tonight’s the night. I’m going to do it tonight. And I think that perhaps this whole sex thing has become such an issue because it’s been hanging over my head, because I’ve been so worried about it, and that if we got it out of the way it would all be fine, because it’s bound to be better than I expect. Isn’t it?
Ed’s trying to stifle a yawn, and I laugh and put my arms around him, kissing him on the forehead, saying, “It’s past your bedtime, isn’t it, old man?”
And he snuggles up to me, smiling sleepily. “I’m not old.”
“Okay. Older-than-me man.”
“That’s better. I’m fine. You’re not ready for bed. I’m really happy staying up a bit longer. Ce n’est pas un problème.”
Oh shut up with the bloody French, Ed. You’re about to ruin the moment. But of course I don’t say this. I say: “You mean a minute longer, don’t you?”
“You’re right,” he laughs. “I am pretty tired.”
“Come on.” I take him by the hand and pull him to his feet. “I’m putting you to bed.”
Now I know I could have said I’m taking you to bed, but that would have been too obvious, wouldn’t it? That would have made him realize tonight is the night, and then we would have both had to walk upstairs knowing that once we made it into the room we were about to, as Jules put it, make lurrve, and halfway up we probably would have started throwing up with nerves or something.
So we say good night to Sarah and Charlie, and wave apologetically to people like Julia, who we can just about make out over the sea of heads, and we walk upstairs, me leading Ed by the hand. My heart’s pounding, I can’t believe I’m about to do it, and part of me wants—and God oh God, please don’t think I sound like a total prostitute for saying this—part of me wants to give him something, to thank him for all he’s done for me.
Ed stops outside his bedroom door and puts his arms around me.
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he says, pulling me close. “What are you doing with me?”
And the way he says it makes my heart open, and I reach up to kiss him on the lips, and when I pull back I smile and say, “Would you stay with me tonight?” And my voice is a bit shaky because Ed is so old-fashioned. I do suddenly think, once the words are out, that he might take me for a brazen hussy, and I’d have to say goodbye to my newfound lifestyle.
“Are you sure?” he whispers back. “I don’t mind sleeping on my own. In fact, I wasn’t expecting—”
And I cut him off with a kiss as I, rather spectacularly I have to admit, open my bedroom door with one hand and pull him gently in with the other.
Sometimes I feel so angry that I think I’m going to scream. It’s like a deep well of anger, resentment, fury, whatever, and I have to concentrate incredibly hard, because at any moment it’s all going to come flooding out and I’m just going to completely lose control.
This is how I feel this morning. Ed’s sitting next to me, we’ve just driven past Guildford on our way back home, and I want to kill him. He keeps giving me these worrying glances, and putting his hand on my leg with a reassuring squeeze, and every time he does it I want to hit him.