Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

  “Libby, you might hate me for saying this, but after last night I’ve just got to.”

  “Go on. What is it?”

  “Look, I’m only saying this because I love you and I don’t want to see you make a mistake.”

  “Get to the point, Jules.”

  “Okay, okay. The thing is, I’m just really concerned that you haven’t thought this through. You’ve been swept up in a whirlwind of excitement, and I’m worried that you haven’t actually thought about the reality of it.”

  “Jules, you’ve said all this to me before. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Okay, fine. But I’m going to say it again, and I really want you to listen to me. Marriage is for life. It’s not just about having a spectacular wedding day, it’s about spending the rest of your life with that person, for better or worse. You can’t just turn around and decide you’re not compatible and walk away. What about children? If you have children Ed will want to send them to Eton, and would you really want your children brought up away from you? There are so many other things to consider, and I’m just so frightened that you haven’t thought this through.”

  I start to feel sick, and immediately jump on the defensive. “What about you, then? If marriage is for life, how come you keep saying that Jamie has to suffer and you don’t know whether you’ll take him back? If you really believe what you’re saying, then you’ll do anything to save your own marriage, and that includes forgiving Jamie.”

  There’s a long silence, and then I hear a catch in her throat as she says softly, “I’m trying.”

  “What?”

  “I do believe what I just said, and all I’ve been thinking about is that I have to find it in my heart to forgive him, because I love him, because he’s my husband, and because I don’t want to live without him.”

  “Thank God,” I practically scream.

  “That doesn’t mean everything’s fine,” she says slowly. “It’s not, and I don’t know if it will ever be fine again, but I’m going to tell him to come home.”

  “Yes!” I punch the air. “Thank God you’ve seen sense.”

  “Libby,” she says, “stop changing the subject. You need to know that marriage is not a fairy tale. This has been the most nightmarish fucking thing that’s ever happened to me, but I’m willing to work at it.

  “Look,” she continues. “I’m not saying that Ed’s not for you, or that you can’t marry him, but all I’m saying is you have to have more time. Marriage isn’t easy. God knows I know that now. Anything that’s irritating you slightly now will magnify a thousandfold once you’re married. I think you need to be very sure. You need some time out on your own to think about this, to think about spending. The. Rest. Of. Your. Life. With. Ed.”

  There’s a silence while I digest what she’s just said, because, even though she’s said it before, it never hit home. I came up with arguments to refute it, but now I see that she’s right. That this—marriage—means I’ll never have another flirtation again. I’ll never be with anyone else again. I’ll be sleeping with Ed, and only Ed, for the rest of my life. And I remember last night again, and I exhale deeply.

  “Libby? Are you still there?”

  “Yes.” My voice sounds small. “I think you’re right.”

  “I’m not saying this isn’t it,” she says, sounding relieved. “I’m just saying you need to be one hundred percent sure.”

  “I know.” My voice still sounds small. “So what do I do?”

  Jules tells me to tell Ed I’ve got a pitch coming up, and that everyone will be expected to work late for the next few days, and that I’ll miss him desperately but I need to prove myself with this one because since I’ve met Ed I’ve barely concentrated on work, and if I don’t do this I’ll be in big trouble.

  And as she says it I know that even though it’s going to be difficult to tell him—I can already see his sad puppy-dog expression—it’s a vaguely credible excuse, and she’s right, I don’t need weeks to think about this, just a few days on my own.

  “Jules? Thanks. Really.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s what best friends are for.”

  But I still feel nervous as hell as I’m driving over to Ed’s that night. I have nothing with me. No set of clean underwear, no change of clothes for tomorrow, no makeup bag, and I can see that Ed notices this as soon as he opens the door.

  “Darling? Where are your things?”

  I can’t lie, I can’t tell him they’re in the car, and even though I hadn’t planned on saying this quite so soon, I haven’t got much choice, have I?

  “I’m not staying tonight,” I say, and, predictably enough, he looks crestfallen.

  “Is something the matter?” I can already see the fear in his eyes, and a wave of sympathy sweeps over me.

  “Don’t be silly, darling. Nothing’s the matter. But I’d love a cup of tea.”

  Anything to stall for time.

  We go into the kitchen and as I sit at the counter in silence Ed turns to me and asks worriedly, “There is something wrong, isn’t there?”

  “I already told you. No. There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that I’m in big trouble at work, and we’ve got a pitch coming up and I’m going to be working really hard the next few days, so I don’t think I’m going to be able to spend much time with you.”

  Ed is visibly relieved as he puts the tea in front of me. “Is that all, darling? Don’t worry about work. I’ll look after you anyway and you know I won’t want you working once we’re married, so why don’t you just hand in your notice?”

  “I love my job,” I say indignantly, suddenly realizing that, at the moment, I do. “I don’t want to give it up quite yet. Although,” I add as an afterthought, “it’s very sweet of you to offer. I feel that I need to prove myself with this. You do understand, don’t you?” I sip the tea.

  “I suppose so,” he says sadly. “But I will see you, won’t I?”

  “God, I hope so,” I lie, reaching up and giving him a kiss, then pulling away just as I feel Ed getting passionate, because the last thing I want is to have sex tonight. I look at my watch. “Jesus, I’ve got to get back. Everyone’s working late tonight in a frenzy.”

  “You mean you’re going back to the office now?”

  “I’m so sorry, darling,” I say, grabbing my bag. “But they’ll sack me if I’m not there. You’d better not call because the switchboard will be closed, but if there’s anything urgent I’ll leave the mobile on. I’ll call you tomorrow,” and I give him another peck and run out the door.

  I catch Marks & Sparks off the Edgware Road just as they’re about to close, but the security man is taken in by my pleading looks and winning smile, and he lets me in with a shake of his head.

  Freedom. I feel free. I can eat whatever I want tonight, and I’m going to be in my flat for the whole night and refuse to answer the phone. I’m going to do what I want, when I want, and already I feel as if a load has been lifted. For the next few days I am completely free.

  I run down the aisles throwing things in a basket. Mini pita breads, taramasalata, hummus, olives. I chuck in a packet of smoked salmon and some mini chicken tikkas. Fuck it. I’m having a blow-out. I hesitate over some vegetables, then decide they’re far too healthy, so it’s back to the deli section via the party section, where I can’t help but be tempted by some gorgeous looking canapés.

  And I dash up to the one remaining till that’s open, and while the girl adds up my stuff I grab a handful of chocolate bars and add them to the pile.

  Then back in the car and on to Ladbroke Grove, but not before stopping at the video store. And while I’m in the video store trying to decide between Sleepless in Seattle and Sleepers, my mobile rings and Ed’s number flashes up on the screen. I press the busy button on the phone, and poor Ed gets my voice mail, and I know it’s mean, but I don’t want to have to deal with him right now. I just want to be on my own.

  I choose Sleepers. The last thing I need is to watch a slushy romantic love st
ory where the hero is gorgeous (if you’re into Tom Hanks, that is, which I happen to be), and I whiz off home via the off-license, where I treat myself to a very expensive (that means more than 4.99) bottle of claret.

  Home. Wonderful, fantastic home. As I’m unloading the bags the phone rings, and I hear Ed’s voice on my machine.

  “Sweetieloveydarling, I tried your mobile but you’re not answering. I just wanted to ring and say that I miss you and I love you and I can’t wait for us to get married. Don’t worry about work, and I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you very, very much.”

  “Fuck off,” I mutter, as I pop the chicken tikka in the microwave to heat it up.

  And the phone rings again.

  “Libby, darling. It’s Mum.” As if I didn’t know. “You’re obviously out, probably having a wonderful time with Ed. Dad and I were just saying we hadn’t heard from you for a few days and wondered how you are. Perhaps you and Ed would like to come over for supper next week? Oh well, you know how I hate talking into these little machines. If you don’t get back too late give me a ring. Well. Ah. If you come back. If not, call me in the morning. Bye, bye, darling.”

  “And you can fuck off too,” I shout, my mouth full of pita bread, as I gather up my food and collapse on to the sofa.

  Thank God. It’s Saturday morning and I’ve managed to avoid Ed since Thursday night. Okay, I know it’s only one day, but I told Jo to tell him I was in a meeting when he called, and then yesterday, at around three o’clock when I knew he’d be at work, I rang his answering machine at home and told him I missed him and that I was fine, but really busy, and I’d have to work on Saturday but I’d call him in the evening, and maybe we could get together on Sunday.

  Not that I am missing him. That’s what’s so extraordinary. I’ve loved having two nights in at home by myself. I haven’t picked up the phone once, I’ve just pottered around, watching TV, reading magazines. I even attempted a bit of DIY and hung some pictures that have been propped up on top of the radiator since I moved in.

  I thought that these “days off,” as Jules put them, would be a time of reflection. I thought I’d be sitting around analyzing every aspect of our relationship and trying to work out whether Ed is The One, whether I do want to spend the rest of my life with him, but actually I haven’t even thought about him. I’ve been far too busy being happy by myself.

  Which I suppose is slightly worrying in itself.

  So when the phone rings on Saturday morning, again I leave it because I’ve assumed it’s Ed, but of course I leave the volume up just in case it’s someone important like, well, I suppose like Jules, because really she’s the only person I feel like talking to at the moment, not to mention the only person who really needs me right now.

  Jamie moved back in two days ago. Jules was trying to be cold, trying to let him know that they couldn’t simply pick up where they left off, but, as she admitted to me in a whisper while Jamie was downstairs, “God, Libby, it’s so nice to have him home,” and her coldness toward him is warming up by the minute. Make that the second.

  And I know, she knows, it won’t be forgotten about, and the strangest thing of all is that, hearing this, I started kind of rethinking the whole marriage thing. Not that I don’t want to get married, it’s just that maybe it isn’t the happy ending. Maybe the marriage is just the beginning. Maybe getting married isn’t going to be the answer to my prayers after all.

  I mean, Jesus, it wasn’t exactly the answer to Jules’s prayers now, was it?

  It isn’t Jules. It’s Nick.

  I trip over the rug and stub my toe on the coffee table as I’m rushing to the phone to pick it up before Nick rings off and I pick up the phone shouting, “Shit!”

  “Is that any way to greet your second-favorite man? If I piss you off that much why bother picking up the phone at all?”

  “Ouch,” I say, rubbing my toe. “I just stubbed my toe.”

  “Have you looked out the window?”

  “No. Why? Are you sitting on my railings?”

  He chuckles. “Nope. But it’s a beautiful day. Far too nice to be staying inside. What are you doing?”

  Like I even have to think about it. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  “Not spending the day with your fiancé, then?”

  “Nope. He thinks I’m spending the day in the office.”

  “Oops. Do I smell trouble on the West London front?”

  “Nah, not really. I just needed a bit of space. Anyway, why are you asking?”

  “Just wondered if you wanted to come out to play.”

  “What kind of play?”

  “Not that kind of play,” he laughs. “Although now you mention it—”

  “What do you want to do?” I resist all temptation to flirt.

  “I thought maybe we could go for a walk on the heath, then window shop in Hampstead, maybe have lunch or something.”

  “That sounds fantastic!” It does. “I’d love to.” I would.

  “Great! How about I’ll meet you outside the cinema on South End Green.”

  “Okay. Give me an hour.” I look at my watch. “I’ll see you at twelve.”

  “See you then.”

  And for the first time in what feels like ages I don’t have to worry about what to wear. I don’t have to worry about “looking the part,” or being accepted, or wearing designer gear. I sling on my jeans that haven’t seen the light of day since I met Ed, pull on some sneakers and inch on a tight, white, V-necked T-shirt. If I were with Ed, I’d loop a cardigan stylishly around my shoulders, but, seeing as it’s Nick, I tie it round my waist and to be honest it’s far more comfortable that way, at least I don’t have to worry about it falling off.

  I slap on a bit of makeup—because even though this isn’t a romantic assignation, I wouldn’t be caught dead leaving the house without something on—toss my hair around a bit and that’s it. I’m ready.

  And when I reach the cinema at noon, Nick’s already there, sitting on the steps outside reading the Guardian, occasionally looking up and closing his eyes as the sun bathes his face in warmth.

  There’s a girl leaning against a lamppost trying to look as if she’s also basking in sunlight, but as I approach I watch her sneaking looks at Nick, who is looking, it has to be said, decidedly gorgeous.

  “Libby!” He stands up and flings his arms around me, giving me a smacker on the cheek, and as we walk off down the road he keeps an arm casually around my shoulders, and maybe this should make me feel uncomfortable, but there’s nothing sexual, nothing intimate, it’s just the mark of a good friend, and I laugh as I put my arm around his waist and give him a squeeze, instantly remembering the hard contours of his body, the way he looks when he is naked.

  But then I remember I am the property of another, and I move away from him slightly, just enough for him to remove his arm, and I link arms with him instead, which feels much safer.

  “Come on, come on,” he urges, marching next to me. “If I’d known you were such a snail I wouldn’t have asked you to come for a walk.”

  “We can’t go for a walk yet,” I say in horror. “It’s practically lunchtime and I haven’t had any breakfast. I’m starving.”

  “Okay. Shall we hit the high street?”

  “To the high street we shall go.” And giggling together we march up Downshire Hill.

  “God, this is beautiful,” I say halfway up the hill, stopping to peer into the windows of a tiny, cottagey whitewashed house.

  “Mmm,” agrees Nick. “This is one of my favorite roads in the whole of London. If I had money I’d definitely buy a house here.”

  “Money?” I look at him with horror. “But, Nick! You’re forgetting. You don’t want money. In fact, if I remember correctly, you’d give it all to the bloody politicians.”

  “Ah,” he says, nodding sagely. “Yes, that is correct. I did once say I would give my lottery win to the bloody politicians, but of course I’d save a few million for myself.”

  “You’ve
changed your tune.”

  “Yes, well. As you keep saying, I’m really a girl, and isn’t it a woman’s prerogative to change her mind?”

  I laugh. “Are you quite sure you’re not gay?”

  “Never!” he exclaims loudly in a Winston Churchill voice. “When there are so many gorgeous women around.” He leers at me and tries to pinch my bum as I shriek with laughter and run off.

  “Wait, wait,” he calls, and I stop and grin at him as he lopes toward me. “I am sorry m’lady for insulting you by partaking of your bottom.”

  “You’re forgiven,” I say. “Just don’t make a habit of it.” And then I get this flashback of Nick kissing my breasts, down to my stomach, and I shiver, horrified that I’m still thinking about it, that the memory of it, in the presence of the man himself, is definitely turning me on. I shake my head to try and dislodge the memory, but of course Nick is here, with me, so it doesn’t really go away, just moves to the back of my mind, which seems to be fairly safe for now.

  We walk past the police station, past a café, and as we pass the furniture shop on the corner I stop Nick and drag him to the window.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I sigh. “Can we have a look?”

  “Yes. Let’s go in and look at all the things we could never afford.” And then his face falls. “I mean, me. Sorry. I keep forgetting that you can probably afford the whole shop. A thousand times over.”

  “Not yet, I can’t. Come on.” I drag him in by the hand. “Let’s drool.”

  I sigh with delight over the ethnic furniture, and shriek with horror at the prices.

  “They want 970 for that piece of Indian tat?” says Nick very loudly, as he looks at the price of a coffee table.

  “Sssh. Keep your voice down,” I whisper, noting that the sales assistant’s eyes are following us around the shop. Just as we walk out, Nick says, loud enough for the entire shop to hear, “You know Simon bought the very same table in India for 3.20. And what’s more, he thought he was ripped off.”

  “You are incorrigible,” I laugh, as we step outside.