by Jane Green
“But really,” he insists. “Those prices are laughable. And they do probably buy it in India for nothing. Think of all those poor people struggling in India, and thinking they’re getting a bargain by selling their handcrafted stuff for a fiver.”
“Hmm.” I can see he has a point. “Are you getting on your political high horse again? I just want to be warned.”
“Nah,” he says, “the weather’s far too lovely to get on any horse. Much more fun walking.”
We continue up the hill, idly chatting about this and that, and then I remember how mysterious he was the other night about the book, and what’s happening with it, and I ask him again if he’ll tell me.
“Can’t.” He shakes his head. “It’s a secret.”
“Oh, pleeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaase,” I plead, looking up at him hopefully. “I’ll be your best friend.”
“Nope.”
“What about if we exchange secrets?”
Now he looks interested. “You mean you tell me one, then I’ll tell you?”
He stops walking and turns to look at me. Now he’s interested. “Okay, I’ll do a deal with you. You tell me a secret, and if I think it’s good enough, I’ll tell you. How’s that?”
“Okay, deal.” And I stand there desperately trying to think of a secret, but I can’t think of any. I could tell him that I cried during sex the other night, but I don’t want him to know that, it wouldn’t be fair on Ed, and anyway it isn’t really a secret. But I don’t really have secrets. And then I think of something.
“I’ve got one, but you have to promise you’ll never tell anyone.”
“I promise.”
“It’s really stupid.”
“Libby! Just tell me.”
“Okay. When I’m driving in my car I talk to myself.”
“So? Loads of people talk to themselves.”
“But I do it in an American accent.”
“You’re kidding!”
I shake my head.
“Give me an example.”
I shake my head again.
“Oh, go on, just give me an idea of what you say, what you talk about.”
Reluctantly, it has to be said, I stand in the middle of Hampstead High Street and in a crap American accent I say, “Did you have a good time tonight? Yeah, it was rilly cool.”
And Nick collapses with laughter.
“I can’t believe that,” he splutters, and I start laughing too. “You are seriously weird.”
“I am not. I bet loads of people do that.”
“Not in an American accent. Go on, do some more.” He wipes the tears from his eyes.
So I do a little bit more, and soon the pair of us are clutching each other to stop from falling down, and I’m holding my stomach because I’m laughing so hard it’s hurting.
And when we recover I say, “Your turn. Now tell me about the book.”
“No way. Your secret wasn’t big enough.”
“What? You’re joking! You loved my secret.”
“Only because it demonstrates what a completely weird person you are. It isn’t that big a secret.”
“You bastard.” I hit him.
“Wanna try again?”
“Nope. You’re not getting any more secrets out of me. Now I really am starving, what about here?” We’re standing outside a café with tables dotted on the pavement, and I watch a couple leave a tip, then stand up.
“Quick, quick.” Nick grabs me by the hand. “We must have that table.”
I order a salade niçoise, and Nick has an egg and bacon baguette, but by the end of the meal we’re feeding each other our respective meals, making a huge mess, and giggling like children.
And Nick insists on paying, which I feel slightly guilty about, because he really doesn’t have much money, but he won’t hear of accepting anything from me, and then we leave and walk up, past Whitestone Pond, and on to the heath.
And the weather is beautiful. It’s a hot, hazy, lazy summer’s day, and everyone’s smiling, and this is London at its best, it’s why I wouldn’t live anywhere else.
After a while, kicking through the long grass until we’re on open spaces, Nick says why don’t we sit down and sunbathe for a bit, and I put my bag down, kick off my shoes and fold my arms behind my head, just listening to the birds and watching the trees blow slowly in the soft, occasional breeze.
“So,” I say eventually, when we’ve been lying there for a bit in silence. “What did you think of Ed?” I don’t know why I ask this question, but I suppose I think he’ll echo Sal and say he seemed like a nice guy. I’m certainly not expecting what comes next. If I had been, I would never have asked.
“Do you want the truth?” Nick says seriously, and I shrug.
“I think he’s awful,” Nick says slowly, while I look at him with a smile because he’s obviously joking.
He’s not joking.
“I think he is absolutely horrific,” he says, and there isn’t even the merest hint of a smile. “Not only is he far too old for you, he’s also far too straight for you. He’s pompous, arrogant, and he doesn’t fit into any aspect of your life. He treats you like some sort of trophy girlfriend, sorry, fiancée, with patronizing comments and pats on the head, and he has completely ignored who you really are because he’s just not interested. He probably cannot believe his luck that someone like you would even look at him.
“And to be honest,” he continues, while I sit openmouthed in shock. “I can’t believe you would even look at him. I think he is quite possibly one of the most awful men I have ever met, and all I can think is that you’ve had some sort of mental block, because you would have to be absolutely crazy to even look at him, let alone consider marrying him.”
I’m about to scream at him, to shout “How dare you,” to splutter with indignation, and fury, and rage, but I don’t. Nick just looks at me, waiting for a reaction, and I feel my eyes well up, and suddenly I’m crying. Hiccuping huge sobs, and before I know it Nick has his arms around me, and he’s rubbing my back in great big circular motions, and I’m soaking his shoulder with my tears.
“Sssh, sssh,” he’s saying. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.” And this makes me cry even more, because, even though I don’t want to be influenced by what Nick has just said, I know he’s right. He’s absolutely fucking right.
And eventually I calm down, and pull away and try to smile through my tears, finally absolutely sure that I have to end this with Ed, that I cannot go through with it, and Nick smiles at my wobbly smile, and Christ only knows how this happens, but we’re kissing.
It’s not that I kiss Nick, or that he kisses me, it just happens. One minute I’m smiling at him and the next second I’m locked into his arms.
His lips are on mine, and they’re soft, and warm, and then, before I even register what’s happening, my tongue takes on a life of its own and slips into his mouth, and he pushes me back on the grass and a moan escapes me, from somewhere deep down, and I want his kiss to swallow me up.
We can’t stop. Neither of us. Not even when a group of teenagers walks past and starts catcalling and shouting things. I am lost in this kiss, in Nick, and I want it to go on forever.
Does it sound cliched to say that everything disappears? That it’s as if there is nothing else on this planet except me, and Nick, and the feelings that are churning up inside me, feelings that I had honestly forgotten I ever had? That if we had not been in a public place there is no question that we would have ended up having sex? That when Nick’s hand disappeared up my T-shirt to gently rub my breasts I would have let him carry on forever had it not been for my sense of decorum?
But we have to stop. Eventually. And as we pull apart and look at each other, my hands fly up to my mouth. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “What have I done.”
I am not the sort of person who is unfaithful, and, before you argue with me, I consider kissing someone, when you are engaged, going out with, or married to someone else, unfaithful.
Many years ago
I caught Matthew, an old boyfriend, with someone else. When I say caught, I don’t mean that I walked in on them, interrupting coitus, as it were. I mean that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time (or perhaps you would argue the right place at the right time), and that Matthew had no idea I would be there, and that I saw him kissing someone else.
It was a crowded party, and yes, admittedly, I was far too young to be getting serious with anyone, let alone Matthew. I stood there and watched them, frozen with horror, and I thought that my heart was actually going to break. Many years ago Matthew argued that it was only a kiss, that she was no one, that they hadn’t even petted, let alone slept together, so what was the big deal about. But I vowed, there and then, that I would never do that. I decided that if ever I were in a relationship that made me so unhappy I was looking for emotional or physical gratification outside that relationship, I would first discuss it with my partner, and together we would try and work it out.
Of course I now know, thanks to Jamie, that nothing is quite as easy as that. I have surprised myself with the way I seem to have forgiven Jamie committing what I have always considered to be the cardinal sin, but there again, as Jamie confessed, it was simply physical gratification, which, although I don’t condone it, I can sort of understand.
But the thing that’s worrying me now, the thing that I could never have predicted, is what on earth you are supposed to do when your feelings are unfaithful?
I didn’t expect to be quite so upset, but I cried all night. I cried for the loss of my fantasies, for the loss of my dreams. And I cried at the memory of what it is like to be alone.
Last night, drowning in tears, Nick rang, and this time I didn’t pick up the answering machine. He left a message—in other circumstances I would say a very sweet message—saying that he’d had a lovely time, and that he was sorry for compromising me, and that he hoped he hadn’t offended me, but if I wanted to call him he would be there.
But I don’t want to call him. I don’t want to confuse the issue any further, and the only issue that’s important right now is Ed.
Ed. I called him. Last night. I managed to calm down enough to pretend there was nothing wrong, although the first thing he asked was whether I had a cold because I sounded sniffly. He told me he loves me very, very much, and he said he’d missed me desperately, and we arranged to meet this evening.
He wants to take me out for dinner, a romantic evening, just the two of us, and I nearly broke down when he said this, because he doesn’t have a clue what I’m going to say to him tonight.
I could have told him on the phone, but even I’m not that much of a bitch. I have to be brave, I have to do this face-to-face, and I feel physically sick at the very thought.
And then, at the end of the conversation, he said, “Darling, I think it’s time we went shopping for a ring,” and I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything, and when I said we’d talk about it tonight, he sounded worried.
I feel like I’ve been drugged. I suppose that crying all night does that to you. You move as if in slow motion, your head too thick and fuzzy to think clearly, and eventually I ring Jules, because I can’t do this on my own. I need to tell her what happened yesterday, to describe my feelings.
She knows instantly that something’s wrong, and orders me over there immediately. They have a lunch with friends, but she sends Jamie off by himself, not, however, before I have a chance to see them together, to see how they are post-trauma. Jamie is being extra affectionate toward her, and although I can see she is trying to resist, when he puts his arms around her to say goodbye she leans into him and the expression on her face is one of relief.
And when he leaves she sits me down and makes me milky sweet tea without saying anything, just waits for me to start.
Haltingly I start to tell her about Nick, and when I’ve finished she doesn’t say anything for a while, so I start blabbering and everything comes out in a big rush.
“I can’t marry him,” I say, tears already filling my eyes. “I can’t. He’s not what I want, and more important I’m not what he wants. Nick’s right. I’ve realized that all this time he’s been trying to turn me into the investment banker’s wife, and that’s not me, it never will be, and I never laugh with Ed, and you were right about everything, about me falling for the fantasy, and even though I know it was an appalling thing to do with Nick I think something like that had to happen to jolt me back to reality, and the thing is I’m seeing Ed tonight, and he’s not a bad person, and I do genuinely think he adores me, and I just don’t know what to say to him or how to say it, because however I put it it’s going to destroy him.” I stop, taking a deep breath.
Jules still doesn’t say anything, so I carry on. “And you know the worst thing is that I don’t love him, I don’t think I even like him that much, and I know I was wrong to get into that with Nick, but you see kissing him, Nick I mean, has made me understand just how much is missing with Ed, I mean our sex life is crap. Really. Awful.”
I never thought I’d be able to stay in a relationship where the sex was awful. I always assumed I was one of those women with a high sex drive who would disappear out the door if they were crap, but I suppose it’s amazing what you’ll talk yourself into when you want something so desperately. That’s it. I can’t believe how desperately I wanted to get married.
“I know it’s hard,” Jules says finally. “But you’re doing the right thing. Everything I’ve said to you is finally sinking in, and yes, Ed is a lovely guy, but he’s not for you, and thank God you’ve seen that now rather than a year into the marriage.”
I nod sadly.
“Do you think you would have actually gone through with it?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug sadly. “I think I just wanted to get married, but I’m sure at some point, even if it hadn’t been for Nick, I would have realized all this. I think I’ve probably known it for a while, but I didn’t have the heart to admit it to myself because he’s the first man who’s wanted to marry me and on paper he has everything I’ve ever wanted.”
“Does this mean you’ve finally understood that money isn’t everything?” Jules grins, and I smile back.
“Not everything,” I say. “But all this means is that I’ll have to make it myself.”
“Which is a far healthier attitude.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So you’re going to tell him tonight?”
“Oh God.” I sink my face into my hands. “This is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Jules looks worried. “But you have to,” she says firmly. “You have to be very honest and say that you won’t make him happy.”
“So I put the blame on myself rather than on him?”
She nods. “Isn’t that what men always do?”
I stay at Jules’s all morning, and by lunchtime I’m starting to feel much better. Until, that is, three o’clock approaches and I know that I’ve got to face my parents for tea.
Jules gives me a hug at the door and wishes me luck, and says I must call her when it’s done, and I drive straight to my parents, feeling this cloud of dread hanging over me, and wondering how on earth to tell my parents.
My mother, being the witch that she is, can see something’s wrong as soon as I walk in.
“You look like you’ve been crying,” she says, stepping in for a closer look. “I hope everything’s all right with you and Ed. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, going into the living room and moving aside the newspaper in front of my father’s face so I can kiss him hello.
My mother follows me in. “I know something’s wrong, dear,” she says firmly. “You may as well tell us now, get it out of the way, but I must say that I do hope it’s nothing to do with Ed.”
“Uh-oh,” says my father, shuffling his feet into his slippers. “Girl talk. I’ll leave you two alone, shall I? I’ll be out in the garden.”
“Come on, then, out with it.”
“Leave me
alone, Mum. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Have you two had a lovers’ tiff? I shouldn’t worry about that, it’ll blow over.”
I sit there with my arms crossed, staring at the mute television picture, and refuse to speak as my mother perches on the edge of the armchair and mimics my pose.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” she says, and before she has a chance to say anything more I stand up and march outside. “I’m going to see what Dad’s done in the garden,” I shout over my shoulder as I step through the french windows.
My dad’s deadheading the roses, and I stand next to him as he hands me the dead heads in silence. My dad and I have never exactly had long conversations, but I know that the only way to do this is to tell him first, yet I don’t know how to tell him, I don’t know which words to use.
“Is it Ed, then?” my dad says slowly, not looking at me, just reaching up to a particularly high branch.
“Yes.”
“Is it over?”
“Yes. Well. Not yet. But it will be tonight.”
My dad just nods and carries on.
“D’you think I’m doing the right thing?”
My dad stops and finally looks at me.
“I couldn’t tell you this before. I couldn’t even tell your mother, not when she was so excited about having a rich son-in-law, but he wasn’t for you, Libby. He wouldn’t have made you happy.”
“You didn’t like him, did you, Dad?”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t like him,” my dad says slowly. “It was just that he lives in a completely different world, and I worried that he didn’t really approve of you the way you are, that he was trying to change you into something else.”
God, I never realized my dad was that perceptive.
“And I didn’t think you loved him,” he continues, walking over to the bench at the end of the garden and sitting down before I join him.
“You see, the thing is,” he says after we’ve both sat for a while in the sunshine, “the thing is that love is really the most important thing. I know it’s hard for you to see it now”—he chuckles quietly—“but when I first laid eyes on your mother I thought she was fantastic, and I’ve never stopped loving her, not for a second. Oh yes, we’ve had our rough patches, and she can be a bit of an old battle-ax at times, but I still love her. That in-love feeling at the beginning settles down into a different, familiar sort of love, but it has to be there right from the start, otherwise it just won’t work.”