Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

  “You didn’t like him, did you, Dad?” My heart sinks.

  “Do you want me to be honest?”

  “Yes.” No.

  “I think he’s obviously smitten with you. In material terms he could probably give you everything you needed. But . . .” And he stops.

  “Go on, Dad.”

  “Well, it’s just that I’m not entirely sure he’s for you.”

  “Why not?”

  He sighs. “Nothing that I can exactly put my finger on, but I wanted to make sure you were happy, because I want what’s best for you.”

  “And you don’t think he is?” I have a feeling my dad wants to say more, but he doesn’t, and I don’t push him.

  “If you’re happy, Libby, then I’m happy.”

  “I’m happy, Dad. Honestly.”

  “Good. All right, darling, that’s all. We’ll see you on Sunday?”

  “See you then. Bye, Dad.”

  “Bye.”

  What was all that about? Well, I knew my dad didn’t feel comfortable last night, and I knew that he was falling asleep during all Ed’s stories, and I’ll even go so far as to admit that even I find Ed boring sometimes, but he does have other redeeming qualities, and nobody can keep you amused all the time. Can they?

  I’ve already spoken to Jules twice today, but I want to know what she thinks of this strange conversation with my dad, plus she’d better have returned Paul’s call, so I ring her mobile because I know she’s on her way to a client.

  “My dad hates him.”

  “You’re joking!” she gasps. “Did he say that?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly. But he didn’t have to.” And I tell her what he did say.

  “Hmm. Could just be parental concern. I mean, Ed is quite a lot older than your other boyfriends, so maybe he’s just worried about you.”

  “What’s Ed being older got to do with anything?”

  “Okay. Point taken. I’d tell you what I thought of Ed, and you know I’d be entirely honest. In fact, I’ve just had a brilliant idea. You know that guy Paul? Why don’t the four of us go out for dinner? I couldn’t face seeing him on my own, it’s too like a date, but I could cope if you were there too, and then I could suss out Ed as well.”

  “Fantastic!” I say, and it is, even though it will feel completely weird without Jamie, but at least this way Jules will definitely see this guy again. I’m trying to fight Jamie’s corner, but I don’t think there’s any harm in lining up a reserve, just in case. “When can you make it?”

  “Friday night?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Libby? Delivery again for you.” It’s Jo on the internal phone.

  “Don’t tell me yet more flowers.”

  “Nah. This one’s more mysterious. Come and see.”

  I go to reception, where there’s a large plastic Gucci carrier bag, and my heart, I swear, misses a beat, because we don’t handle Gucci’s PR (chance would be a fine bloody thing), so why is there a bag from Gucci with my name on it?

  Jo rubs her hands together squealing, “Open it, open it,” so I do, but first I pull out the card and read out loud: “ ‘To my darling Libby, for making such an effort last night. I love you. Ed.’ “

  “Oh my God,” Jo squeals. “What’s in the bloody bag?”

  I slowly tear off the tissue paper, and open a drawstring fabric bag with Gucci printed on it, and pull out a chocolate brown leather Gucci bag. The one with bamboo handles. The one I’ve always wanted.

  “You. Are. So. Fucking. Lucky,” says Jo.

  “You’ve got one of these!” I say, stroking the leather that’s as soft as butter.

  “Yeah, but I had to pay for it. Three ten.”

  “You’re joking!” Now it’s my turn to squeal.

  “I can’t believe your boyfriend bought you a Gucci bag!”

  “Jesus Christ. Neither can I!”

  Naturally, I have to phone Jules again, and, although she is excited, there’s something about her voice, something slightly reserved, that makes me question her until she tells me what she’s really thinking.

  “I’m worried that it’s almost like he’s buying you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snort, still stroking my gorgeous new acquisition. “Three hundred quid for him is like three quid for the rest of us.”

  “Still,” she says. “Lavishing presents on you would make it very difficult for you to leave.”

  “But I’m not going to leave,” and for the first time I’m beginning to get slightly pissed off with Jules, which never, ever happens.

  “God, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m being a complete killjoy. It’s fantastic and I’m jealous, that’s all.”

  “It is gorgeous,” I say, smiling. “You really will be jealous when you see it.”

  “It’s the one in Tatler this month, isn’t it? The one that all the It Girls are supposed to have.”

  “Yup. That’s the one.”

  “You lucky cow. ’Course I’m jealous, and I can’t wait to meet him on Friday.”

  “Good. And I can’t wait to meet Paul. Oh, and just in case you don’t recognize me I’ll be the one with the Gucci bag.”

  We get to Sartoria first, having found a parking space almost immediately, which is a bit of a miracle in the West End, and I order a Kir, which is what I’ve taken to ordering these days because it fits my new image as the smart, sophisticated partner of Ed McMann.

  And in case you’re wondering, I’m wearing a brown leather skirt that I picked up yesterday, because, much as I love my trousers, Ed has now grudgingly admitted that he completely adores women in skirts, so it’s the least I can do to please him, and it does happen to look rather spectacular with my new Gucci bag. (Okay, okay, I’ll stop now, I just had to mention it one more time.)

  Ed sits next to me and holds my hand under the table, and every few minutes he kisses me on the lips, which, nice as it is to be so adored, is beginning to irritate me ever so slightly. I did try and extract my hand, but then he got that sad puppy-dog look on his face again, and I felt guilty, so I placed my hand back in his and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

  And then Jules and Paul arrive (it sounds so wrong, Jules and Paul), and Ed stands up to shake their hands and say how lovely it is to see Jules again, while Paul stands there awkwardly waiting to be introduced to me.

  Paul seems . . . he seems nice, which I know is pretty nondescript, but, despite being everything that Jules described, he’s just not Jamie, and I really don’t know whether I could get used to this man.

  We sit and make small talk about how wonderful the restaurant is, and how we’ve all heard how marvelous the food is, and when the waiter comes to take our order Ed can’t decide and he asks me to choose for him, which I do and which I love—this gesture of trust and intimacy.

  And Ed is at his most charming, asking lots of questions, not, thank God, telling his bloody investment banking stories, and I’m praying and praying that Jules loves him.

  I do get slightly exasperated when most of Ed’s hors d’oeuvre ends up on his mustache, because this happened the other night as well, and I had to nudge him while I thought my parents weren’t looking and gesture to wipe the food off. Tonight I’m feeling more confident, and I want Jules to see how close we are, so I pick up my napkin, raise my eyes to the ceiling and wipe the food off, and while Ed looks a bit sheepish, he’s also delighted that I’m looking after him so well.

  There is a moment when Jules is talking about someone she works with who’s driving her mad by constantly changing her mind, and whom she describes as “mercurial.”

  “Umm, excuse me?” Ed interrupts her.

  “Yes?” She stops in mid-flow.

  “I don’t think ‘mercurial’ is the word you mean.”

  Jules stopped dead in her tracks. “Umm. I think it is,” she says slowly.

  “I don’t think it is. What did you mean?”

  Jules looks at him as if he’s mad, which I have to say, I think he is rather, becaus
e even I’m wary of challenging Jules when she’s on a roll.

  “Flighty. Constantly changing,” she says. “A person who suffers from mood swings.”

  “As far as I’m aware, mercurial means of mercury, i.e., liquid, flowing.”

  “I think you’ll find it can also mean constantly changing,” she says, and from the tone of her voice I pray that Ed backs down.

  “Please don’t think me rude, but I think you’ll find the Oxford English Dictionary defines it as ‘of or containing mercury,’ “ Ed persists, while I want to die with embarrassment.

  “Actually,” says Paul, jumping in to save the day, “I think you’ll find you’re both right. As far as I can remember, mercurial means both of or containing mercury, and volatile.”

  “And Paul’s a surgeon,” I say, trying to break the ice, “therefore frighteningly clever, so I think we’ll all have to agree with him.”

  Thank God, it does break the ice somewhat, but from there on in the atmosphere is slightly less convivial than it has been, and every now and then I see Jules shooting him daggers when she thinks neither of us is looking.

  “Well, I must say,” Ed exclaims as we’re about to order coffee, evidently having completely missed the implication of his near-argument with Jules. “It’s lovely to meet Libby’s closest friend.”

  “Thank you,” says Jules. “And it’s lovely to meet you.” This bit was said through gritted teeth. “Has Libby met your closest friends?”

  And that’s when I realize that apart from Sarah and Charlie and the people at the party in the country, not only have I not met any of Ed’s friends, I haven’t even heard about any. Everyone he talks about seems to be a colleague through work, and isn’t this a bit strange? I look at Ed to see what he says.

  “Ha, ha,” he laughs. Umm, was there a joke? “I don’t really have many friends.”

  “I can’t think why not,” mutters Jules, as I kick her under the table. “But you must have a few,” she pushes, in a light tone of voice.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Charlie and Sarah of course. Libby’s met them. And, umm. Well. I suppose I work so hard I haven’t really had time to make that many friends.”

  I can see that Ed’s slightly flummoxed, so I interject with: “Charlie and Sarah were lovely. I told you all about them, remember?”

  Jules nods. “I just wondered what you did socially before you met Libby.”

  “I’m not a hugely social creature, ha ha,” says Ed. “I’m either in the office or at home.”

  “You must be delighted you’ve met Libby, then,” says Paul with a smile.

  “Oh, I am,” he says, beaming at me with relief at being let off the hook. “I am.” And he leans over and kisses me on the lips.

  “I’m just going to the ladies’ room. Jules?”

  “I’ll come,” she says, putting her napkin on the chair as we stand up and walk down to the loo.

  “Well? What d’you think?” The words are out of her mouth before the door is even shut.

  “He’s lovely,” I say. “A really nice guy.”

  “I know,” she sighs, reapplying some lipstick. “But it’s not the same, is it?”

  “Well, no. I suppose it’s not.”

  “Oh gawd,” she says. “What am I going to do?”

  “Are you planning on doing anything?” I look at her in amazement.

  “I don’t want to,” she says. “But, and I know this sounds weird, but I kind of feel that if I were to be unfaithful as well, then we’d be equal, and then I could forgive him.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

  “No. I don’t really want to do it. But I think it’s the only way. Anyway, enough about me. Ed. He obviously adores you.”

  “I know that! But what do you think of him?”

  “Do you want me to be completely honest?”

  Suddenly I’m not so sure, because I don’t want to fall out with Jules, not with my best friend, but I know it’s not going to be good news, and I don’t think I could stand to argue with her.

  I shrug.

  “Look,” she says, calming down. “We haven’t exactly got off to a great start. I didn’t appreciate that whole mercurial business, so right at this moment I can’t think of a great many positive things to say, but I can see that he’s treating you incredibly well, and for that I’m grateful.”

  “You really don’t like him?”

  “I don’t know. I’d need to spend more time with him. But the main thing is that you’re happy.”

  “You will like him, you know,” I say. “He’s really a sweetheart once you get past all the pompous shit.”

  “You mean you can get past the pompous shit?”

  “Oh, Jules!” I give her a hug. “Please be happy for me. He’s treating me better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s what I’m scared of,” she says into my shoulder. “I’m just scared that you’ve fallen for the way he’s treating you, rather than for the man himself.”

  We disengage and it’s my turn to reapply some lipstick. “I don’t think that’s the case,” I say, painting on my top lip. “I really don’t.”

  “Okay,” she says, smiling at me in the mirror. “If you say so, then I believe you.”

  “Did you like them?”

  “Yes,” says Ed slowly, on the way back to his place.

  “Did you like Jules?”

  “She’s certainly feisty,” he says.

  “You didn’t like her, did you?”

  “Of course I did,” he says, reaching over to give me a kiss as we stop at a red light. “She’s your best friend, so I have to like her.”

  I’m not sure that’s entirely what I wanted to hear, plus I don’t really believe him, but I’m sure they’ll both get over it. I’m sure everything will be fine. It has to be.

  We park the car and get out, and just as we’re walking to the front door Ed suddenly turns and grabs me, enveloping me in a huge hug.

  “I was going to wait,” he says, “and do this properly. But I think I should probably ask you now. Will you marry me?”

  These are the words I’ve waited my whole life to hear, so why isn’t my heart soaring into the night sky? Why am I not dancing up the street with joy? Why do I feel so completely and utterly normal?

  “Okay,” I say eventually, watching Ed’s expression turn from worried into rapturous.

  “You will?”

  “I will.”

  “You’ll be my wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh goodness. I think we need to celebrate this with champagne.”

  So we go inside and as I sit on the sofa watching Ed open the champagne I wonder why this feels like the biggest anticlimax of my life. And even when he brings me the glass and sits next to me to cuddle me, I still don’t feel ecstatically happy, but then maybe no one feels like this? Maybe the whole thing is a bit like a Hollywood film, the passionate love thing, the feeling of ecstasy when you’re proposed to? Maybe none of it really exists, and, even if it did, this feeling of being grounded is so much safer, in some ways more real, and I definitely prefer being the loved rather than the lover, I’m much more in control.

  And after we’ve celebrated for a while I pick up the phone and wake up my parents to tell them the good news.

  My mother screams. Literally. Screams.

  “She’s getting married,” she then shrieks at my father. “Oh, Libby, I don’t know what to say I’m so excited and I can’t believe it you’re getting married and oh my good Lord I never thought I’d see the day and you’re marrying Ed McMann and he’s so eligible and you’ve got him . . .” I swear I’m not making this up, she doesn’t take a breath.

  Nor does she add, “Wait until I tell the neighbors,” but I know that’s what she’s thinking.

  And Dad comes on the phone and just says, “Congratulations, darling. I’m very happy for you,” and then I pass the phone to Ed and I can hear my mother shrieking delight at Ed, and finally we put the phone down and
I think about calling Jules, because, after my parents, she should be the first person in the world to know, but somehow I’m not so sure I want to tell her when I’m with Ed, I think I’d rather tell her when I’m on my own, so I leave that call until tomorrow morning and we go to bed.

  I didn’t sleep all that well last night. Ed and I “made lurrve,” and, although it’s getting better, in some ways it’s getting worse. His technique has improved immeasurably, but I now know exactly what he’s going to be doing—I did try telling him that perhaps he ought to vary the routine a little bit, and then he got upset and said it felt like I was criticizing him. I tried to explain that even though he read up on sex in a textbook, the act itself shouldn’t feel like a textbook, and it wasn’t a criticism, it would just sometimes be nice if he surprised me, rather than going through exactly the same motions every time.

  Ed apologized, and then I felt guilty, especially because this was the night we got engaged, so I apologized. Within minutes he was asleep, while I lay awake in his bed for hours, trying to get a grip on the situation. And yes, I was happy, but I lay there thinking that it all still felt a bit like a dream, and I couldn’t quite get used to the fact that this was for life. That this man sleeping beside me would be the only man ever to sleep beside me for the rest of my life.

  But Ed looked so sweet when he was fast asleep. I watched him for ages, and suddenly, at about three in the morning, I felt it. A huge burst of joy that spread up through my body, and that was when it hit me. I’m getting married! Me! Libby Mason! I’m going to be a wife! I’m never going to have to worry about being sad, lonely and single again!

  I crept out of bed and walked around the house, opening all the doors and going into all the empty rooms, standing in them and grinning, knowing that all this was officially mine. And then I went into the gym and started leaping around a bit, until I realized that the whole house was shaking and I might wake Ed, and I didn’t want to wake Ed. This was my moment. Oh my God! I’m getting married!

  I went downstairs and made myself a cup of tea, and sat curled up on the sofa, still grinning manically at the prospect of living in this spectacular house. Of never having to shop in high street chains again. Of showing off my huge house to Jules. And Sally. And Nick.