by Jane Green
“Thank goodness for that,” he says, and that’s when I think that maybe sex will get better, maybe it won’t be so bad, and I pull him on top of me and guide him inside me, and okay, if the truth be known I still can’t quite handle kissing him, or licking him, or burying my nose in his neck, but it’s a hell of a lot better than last night.
I think we make it to twelve seconds. Not that it matters, because after my orgasm I can quite happily go to sleep, but I want to do this for him, because he is so sweet, because he is trying so hard.
We lie in bed afterward, talking softly, and I am so pleased I gave him another chance.
“How did you learn all that in a day?” I ask eventually.
“I speed-read The Joy of Sex,” he chuckles.
“You mean you didn’t do any work today?”
“Of course not. This is far more important. You’re far more important.”
And I snuggle into his shoulder, just loving this feeling of being loved so much.
“Libby?”
“Hmm?” I’m almost asleep.
“I think perhaps it’s time I met your parents.”
I’m now wide awake.
“Umm. Why? Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?”
“Not if we’re serious about each other, and I’m certainly serious about you.”
Jesus, the thought of my parents meeting Ed makes me feel sick. My mother would go into Hyacinth Bucket overdrive, and I’d want to die.
“Umm, well, er.” I struggle, unsuccessfully, to think of an excuse.
“Don’t you want them to meet me?”
“Of course!” I lie. And it’s not them meeting him that’s the problem, it’s him meeting them. I don’t want Ed to see who I really am, who I’m trying so hard to leave behind. “I just think it’s a bit soon, that’s all.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” he says, with a mysterious smile, and suddenly I think, shit! He’s going to ask me to marry him! But it’s much too soon for that, and even Ed wouldn’t jump in this early on, I mean for God’s sake, he hardly knows me.
And this is something of a worry, because he really doesn’t know me, and it has crossed my mind that perhaps Ed isn’t really bothering to get to know me. That perhaps he thinks I will make a suitable wife, a good mother, that perhaps he’s not really interested in the rest, because he’s already pigeonholed me, but that’s very cynical of me, and I’m sure that isn’t the case. He loves me, for Christ’s sake, he must really feel it.
“Okay. We’ll sort something out,” I say vaguely, praying he’ll forget about it.
“Great,” he says, reaching out for his diary on the bedside table. Fuck. “What about Wednesday?”
“I’ll have to check with them,” I say, already knowing that my parents will definitely be busy on Wednesday. At least if I have anything to do with it. “I’ll let you know.”
“They could come here for dinner,” he says. “We could cook.”
“But you can’t cook.”
“Okay. Well, you can cook and I can help you.”
See what I mean? He’s already got me cooking, already placed me in the role of wife. Maybe I’m being ridiculous. After all, it does make sense that I should cook. Not that I’m the best cook in the world, as you already know, but I can probably follow a recipe a damn sight better than Ed.
“Okay,” I say. “Maybe.”
“I love you, Libby Mason,” he says, kissing me before closing his eyes.
“I love you too.”
“Are you entirely sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Not in the slightest,” I groan. “In fact, I think this may well be a nightmare come true.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one having her nightmare come true,” Jules sighs.
Jamie did go over to see Jules that night. She said she opened the door and her very first feeling was this overwhelming maternal urge, because Jamie looked terrible.
“He’d lost so much weight,” she said. “He obviously hadn’t been eating a thing.”
He’d looked haggard, and miserable, and just completely downtrodden. Jules invited him in and took him into the kitchen, where she’d spent all day cooking his favorite meal, so the smell of oxtail stew would permeate the air and make him realize just what he had thrown away. Or not. She hadn’t, at that point, decided.
Jamie naturally commented on the food, but Jules didn’t offer him any. She offered him a cup of tea instead, knowing that he prefers coffee. He said he didn’t want anything.
He sat there, on the sofa, with his head in his hands, and when he eventually raised his eyes he looked at her pleadingly and said, “I miss you so much, Jules. I love you so much. I don’t want to be without you.”
And somehow this seemed to empower Jules, who suddenly felt she was in control, who discovered this pool of strength lurking within, and, looking at him, decided that she would make him suffer.
She was still unsure as to whether she would take him back, but the only certainty she had was that, whatever her decision, she was going to make him pay.
So she told him that he had hurt her beyond measure. That he had broken down every belief she had ever had about marriage. That he had destroyed every dream she had ever had about her future. Their future.
Jamie didn’t say a word.
She said that it was still far too early for her to make a decision about whether he could move back in. Too early to decide even whether she wanted to see him at the moment.
And Jamie apologized, repeatedly, and hung his head in shame.
She said she needed more time, and Jamie nodded and silently left. He turned to kiss her just as he was walking out the door, and Jules moved her head so he ended up kissing air.
“But Jesus, Libby,” she says, when she has finished telling me this, as we are pushing the trolley round Sainsbury’s, me once again having crept out of work slightly earlier than usual, “it was so hard. So fucking hard. All I wanted to do was rewind the clock and make things okay.”
“So do you think they will be okay?”
“Who knows? All I do know is I won’t be ready to take him back until he’s suffered nearly as much as I have.” She pauses. “And I’ve got this bloody work do I’ve got to go to tonight, which Jamie was supposed to come to, and I’m dreading it.”
“Do you have to go?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Too many good contacts to pass up. Anyway,” she continues, sighing, and attempting to smile, “tell me again why you decided to go through with this.”
“This” being Ed meeting my parents.
“Because, Jules,” I say in a mock exasperated tone, “it’s going to happen sooner or later, and I may as well get it out of the way now.”
“But it’s your parents.” Jules knows my parents. My parents, in fact, love Jules. They think she is the perfect woman, and many’s the time my mother has compared me to Jules, with me, naturally, falling short. And Jules likes my parents—how could she not when every time she’s been to their house my mother’s clucked around her like a mother hen, going on about how thin she is and how much she needs feeding up.
And I’ve tried to tell Jules how completely awful my mother is, but she still thinks she’s nice, which I suppose I might do as well if she wasn’t my mother. Well, maybe not, but I can see that parents always seem a hell of a lot better if they’re not yours.
“You don’t think Ed’s going to take your father for a walk round the garden after dinner and ask for your hand in marriage, do you?” she jokes as I throw a bag of spinach in the basket.
Actually, that’s exactly what I had been thinking, and I can’t believe that Jules thought it too. I turn to her in amazement. “Do you think he might do that? Really?”
She shrugs. “Do you?”
“It had crossed my mind. Damn. I need chocolate for the chocolate mousse but I forgot what kind of chocolate.”
“Bourneville,” she says, throwing a couple of big bars in the basket. “So what would you say?”
And suddenly I know exactly what I would say. “I think I’d say yes.”
She gasps and stops dead in her tracks. “Yes? Are you serious? You hardly know the guy.”
“But as you’ve always said, Jules, when it’s right, it’s right.”
“I never said that.”
“Oh, well, okay. But someone did. And I really do think it’s right.”
“So, the sex is crap, him speaking French irritates you beyond belief, and you think you could spend the rest of your life with this man?”
“Jules!” I admonish firmly. “The sex isn’t crap. Okay, it wasn’t great the first time, but it’s much better now,” and incidentally, given that I’ve now stayed at Ed’s every night since Sunday, we’ve had plenty of time to practice, “and the French annoys me a bit, but not that much, and yes, I can imagine spending the rest of my life with this man.”
As it happens, that’s not strictly true, because my fantasies haven’t yet reached beyond the wedding day, but what a wedding I’ve been planning! I’ve worked it all out, from my Bruce Oldfield dress, to my bridesmaids, to the admiring looks of all the people I’ve ever known, because this will be no small wedding, this will be the wedding of the century.
Jules shakes her head. “Listen, Libby, I know things don’t appear to have worked out with Jamie, but at least I loved him. I mean I really really loved him. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Jules, for God’s sake. It’s highly unlikely that he will actually propose tonight, so I think we’re both jumping ahead of ourselves here, and anyway even if we did get engaged we’d definitely have a long engagement.”
“How long? The chicken’s down here.” She wheels the trolley down aisle eight.
“A year.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Jules drops me home so I can pick up my recipe books, and I ring Mum once she’s gone, just to check she’s got the right address. Her voice is all fluttery and excited on the phone.
“Are you sure my green suit will be all right?”
“Mum, it doesn’t matter what you wear, we’re only staying in.”
“But, darling, I want to make a good impression.”
“It really doesn’t matter, Mum. Your green suit will be fine.”
“Should Dad wear a tie?”
“No, Mum,” I sigh. “He doesn’t have to wear a tie.”
“I thought perhaps you might like me to bring some salmon mousse to start with. I made it anyway for us this morning, and I thought maybe we could bring it with.”
“You think I can’t cook, don’t you?”
“No, darling. I’m just trying to help.”
“Forget it, Mum, I’ve got all the food sorted out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mum, I’m sure.”
“It’s no trouble—”
“Mum!” Why, oh why, did I ever decide to go ahead with this?
Did I mention that Ed gave me the spare keys yesterday and told me to keep them?
I let myself into his house, lugging the bags of shopping, and go down to the kitchen. There’s something very eerie about being in a house this size all by myself, so I turn on the lights and retune his radio to Virgin (it was, unsurprisingly, tuned to Radio 3), and rearrange a few things to make it a bit more cozy.
I must talk to him about getting the sofas re-covered.
I open the recipe books to the pages I’ve bookmarked and start to read. I went through them last night and picked out a Jules special which I’d scribbled down on the corner of a page for the main course, and a Delia special for dessert. I had a bit of a panic about starters, but Jules said I should try bruschetta, so I’ve got the ciabatta, garlic and tomatoes, and she says all I have to do is toast the bread, rub it with garlic and olive oil, and arrange tomatoes, olives and fresh basil on top, and the bonus is it’s completely idiot-proof.
So there I am, boiling the spinach, seasoning the chicken breasts, making a total mess of the kitchen but trying my damndest to clear up as I go, because that, they say, is the mark of a true cook, when the phone rings.
Now there’s something very weird about being in your boyfriend’s house on your own and having the phone ring, and for a minute my heart stops, because what if it were another woman leaving a sultry, sexy message?
But then I remember I’m at Ed’s, and Ed completely adores me, and the very last thing on earth I have to worry about is other women. And the machine picks up while I stop everything to hear who it is.
“Libby? Are you there? Pick up the phone.”
It’s Ed.
“Hi, darling. I’m here cooking.”
“Yummy. What are you making?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Have you got everything you need?”
“Yup. I went shopping with Jules.”
“Which reminds me. I must meet Jules again properly. We ought to all go out for dinner sometime.”
“That would be great,” I say, not saying anything more about the separation, or about Jamie, because Ed doesn’t need to know, although dinner is a brilliant idea, and I would love Jules to get to know Ed, even though now isn’t the right time. But I need her approval more than anyone else’s, and even though Jules was there the night we met, she didn’t exactly talk to him, and I really want her to see how right for me he is. I’m just praying they get back together, so things can get back to normal. For all of us.
“I’ve got some things to do in the office and then I’ll be home. Gosh, I must tell you, it’s very nice indeed having someone to come home to. I’ll be walking through the door to all sorts of nice cooking smells. We must do this more often.”
“You mean get me round to cook a meal for when you get home?” I laugh, because I’m joking.
“Exactly,” he says. “Nothing like a home-cooked meal.”
“I’ll have you know I had to leave work early to get this done. This won’t be a regular occurrence or I’ll get the sack.”
“I’d look after you,” he says. “You wouldn’t need to work.”
“Now that,” I say, unable to believe my luck, “is exactly what a girl like me needs to hear.”
I’m not entirely sure how to squeeze all the water out of the spinach, plus, what the hell does blanching mean anyway? I boiled it for fifteen minutes, and I stuck it through a colander and put it in the dish with the chicken breasts on top. Jules’s recipe says use four large chilies, and I forgot the chilies in Sainsbury’s so had to stop at a corner shop and sod’s law they didn’t have any big chilies, only the tiny ones, so I figured four small chilies would equal one big one, so I chop up the chilies and throw them in the sauce.
But the chocolate mousse is easy. I whip the egg whites until my arm is so stiff it’s painful, and, although I haven’t got a clue what a bain-marie is, I melt the chocolate, butter and sugar in a saucepan, and stir it into the egg whites. (What exactly is folding?)
Jules said make the bruschetta just before they arrive. Ed isn’t home yet, and it’s quarter to eight, which means my parents will be here any minute, so I stick the bread under the grill and start piling all the used dishes into the sink to wash.
The doorbell goes. I check my watch and it’s ten to. Trust my parents to be early. I go to the door and here they are, Mum and Dad, standing on the doorstep. Mum grins expectantly, and Dad looks ever so uncomfortable in a suit and tie. Yes, she obviously forced him to wear a tie.
“Where’s Ed,” Mum says in a stage whisper.
“He’ll be home any minute. He’s stuck in the office. Come in.” I kiss them both on the cheek, and step aside as they walk in, my mother, apparently, struck speechless for the first time in her life by the size of the hallway, while I smugly lead the way down to the kitchen.
“It’s wonderful,” she whispers. “Look, Dad,” she says, nudging my father, “he’s got real marble tops in the kitchen. This must have cost a fortune!”
“Do you want the gui
ded tour?” I can’t help myself, I want to feel smug for a little while longer. “Come on, take your coats off and I’ll show you round.”
“Do you think we ought?” says my mother. “Shouldn’t we wait until Ed gets home?”
“Don’t worry. It’s fine,” I say, as I hang the coats in the cloakroom, which, incidentally, is about the size of my parents’ bedroom.
And I lead them around the house, while they ooh and aah over the rooms, and even my father, a man not exactly known for his conversational skills, admits it’s beautiful.
“It’s not beautiful,” admonishes my mother. “It’s a palace.” And then she turns to me, and you’re not going to believe it but she actually has tears in her eyes. “Oh, Libby,” she says, clasping her hands together as a tear threatens to trickle down her cheek. “I’m so happy for you.”
“I’m not married to the guy, Mum,” I say.
“Not yet,” offers my dad, whose grin now matches my mother’s.
“You’d better not mess this one up,” says my mum, opening Ed’s closet doors and inspecting his clothes. “You’ll have me to answer to if you do.”
“Mum, can’t you give it a rest just for tonight?”
“Yes, dear,” echoes my father as I look at him in amazement. “Don’t give her a hard time.”
My mother looks at both of us as if she doesn’t know what we’re talking about, then shakes her head and goes to look at the curtains. “Fully lined,” she mutters to herself. “Must have cost a fortune with all these fancy swags.”
“Shall we go downstairs?” The last thing I want is for Ed to catch us snooping round his bedroom, so we troop downstairs and I make them both gin and tonics while we sit and attempt to make small talk.
“I must say you seem very at home here,” my mum sniffs. “You know where everything is.”
I decide not to answer.
“But I’m not sure I like these sofas,” she continues, because she has to find fault in something. “I think I’d have them re-covered.”
“I like them,” I say firmly. “I wouldn’t touch them.”
“Oh well,” she sighs. “Takes all sorts. So what are we having for dinner?”
“Bruschetta followed by, shit! shit! shit! shit!”