Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

  He looks at me and smiles. “You didn’t love Ed. I could see that, but I couldn’t say anything as long as you thought he was making you happy.” He sighs, stands up and stretches before saying, “Do you want me to tell your mother?”

  An hour later I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching my mother still wiping the tears from her eyes.

  “What am I going to tell everyone?” she sniffles. “How could you do this to me?”

  I shrug, not bothering to reply.

  “You know, Libby, you may not find another man who treats you like Ed treated you.”

  “But, Mum,” I sigh. “I don’t love him. I’m never going to love him.”

  “And since when was that important? As I’ve said to you before, Libby, it’s far more important to find a good man, and Ed is definitely a good man.”

  “But you and Dad were in love when you met.”

  “Pfff.” She rolls her eyes. “It was so long ago I can’t remember, but I’m sure it was about the same as you and Ed.”

  “Dad told me when he first saw you he thought you were fantastic.”

  Her face lights up and she beams as she says, “Did he? Oh well, I suppose I was a bit of a looker in those days.”

  “And he said you were madly in love.” Okay, artistic license here.

  My mother practically simpers. “He was terribly handsome himself, your father. When he was young.”

  “You see?” I persist. “I’ve never thought Ed is terribly handsome, and I’ve never felt madly in love with him, but I tried to pretend that that was okay, that I didn’t need more, but now I’ve realized that I do. And I’m really sorry that Ed won’t be your son-in-law, but you should want what’s best for me, and it isn’t him. I’m sorry, but it just isn’t.”

  My mother opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something, but, wonder of wonders, she doesn’t seem able to think of anything to say, anything to prove me wrong. For once in my life I think she sees my point, and I think it’s rendered her completely speechless.

  So finally, after my traumatic afternoon, I head home in preparation for an even more traumatic evening, and maybe this is slightly sick, but I make far more of an effort tonight. I wear a biscuit-colored sweater and taupe trousers, and I’m tempted to carry the Gucci bag, but I don’t, just in case he asks for it back. I do my makeup very slowly, making sure everything’s perfectly blended, making sure I look my absolute best.

  I’m ready well before the appointed hour, and pour a stiff vodka to steel myself, to provide me with Dutch courage, and I phone Jules for some moral support.

  “You’ll be fine,” she tells me. “You need to be strong and know that you are doing the right thing.”

  So when the doorbell goes at seven-thirty, I walk toward it feeling strong, feeling calm, in control, but as soon as I open the door and see Ed standing on the doorstep, already looking crestfallen, I know that this really is going to be, as I predicted, one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

  But I also know, looking at his face, that I have to do it. That there is no going back. That I will not be tempted, even for an instant, to take the easy route and stay in this relationship, not even for one more night.

  Ed leans forward and gives me a kiss, and I turn my head so he catches the corner of my mouth, and I look away quickly, so I don’t have to see the confused expression on his face.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. “I’ve missed you.” And he tries to pull me in for a kiss but I breeze away to pick up my coat.

  “Shall we go?” I say, and I see that he doesn’t understand; that he knows he’s missing something, only he’s not entirely sure what it is.

  We walk out to the car in silence, and as I climb into the passenger seat I try to remember all the details of this Porsche, because chances are this will be the last time I’m ever in one. Ed turns on the engine and as we drive he keeps shooting me these worried glances, and I seem to have forgotten the art of making conversation, because I just can’t think of anything to say to him.

  “Poor Libby,” Ed says finally, as we pull up to some traffic lights. “I can see you’re exhausted. They’ve obviously been working you far too hard.”

  And I should feel something other than pity, but in that instant I do pity him, and I am enormously irritated by the fact that he cannot see what is blindingly obvious: that there is something drastically wrong, and that it’s about to get a hell of a lot worse.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Really. There are just some things I need to talk about with you.”

  There! The sad puppy-dog expression! Just as I predicted. Ed finally seems to cotton on to the fact that this isn’t just my problem, this somehow involves him as well, and for the rest of the car journey he doesn’t say a word. He puts some music on, bloody opera at that, and after a while I lean forward and switch it off, muttering that I’ve got a headache.

  We get out of the car and go into the restaurant, and I am constantly aware that Ed is gazing at me with that ridiculous bloody expression. We sit down and Ed orders me a Kir, and then looks at me, waiting for me to say the words I now think he knows he’s going to hear, the words he’s terrified of hearing.

  I’m not hungry. Really. Food is the very last thing on my mind, but the waiter brings the menu, and I have to make a pretense of looking at it and admiring the dishes, and eventually I order a green salad to start with, and penne as a main course, although right now I do not have a clue how I will manage to pass any food between my lips at all.

  We sit in awkward silence, Ed looking at me, me looking at the other diners in the restaurant, wondering how they can be so normal, so happy, so coupley, when I am about to break this man’s world apart.

  And eventually, after much sighing and spluttering, I manage to get the first sentence out.

  “Ed, we need to talk.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Still. Just looks at me.

  I sigh a bit more, and lapse into silence for a few more seconds, moving a few bits of lettuce around my plate, then putting down my knife and fork. I pick them up again, sigh, and put them down, pushing my hair back with my hands.

  “Ed,” I say softly. “This isn’t working.”

  And he looks at me. Silently.

  “This. Us. I’m not happy. I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for.”

  And he looks at me. Silently.

  Now I expected arguments. I expected Ed to tell me that nothing in life is easy, least of all relationships, and that things need to be worked at, and that he would be willing to do anything to save this relationship, and perhaps my voice would become louder as I tried to explain that there is no point in working at it because I have made up my mind.

  But I wasn’t expecting this. Silence.

  “I think you’re wonderful,” I say, going to take his hand to reinforce the point, but Ed moves his hand away, which shocks me slightly. I sit back and try again. “You are an incredible man. You are loving, giving, you have so many wonderful qualities, but I’m not the right woman for you.”

  At least I didn’t say I’m not ready for a relationship, which is what you’re always supposed to say in these circumstances, isn’t it? Not that it makes any difference. No matter what the words are, the sentiments are the same: I don’t love you enough to stay with you.

  “You will meet someone one day who is perfect for you,” I say earnestly, although even as I’m saying these words they sound patronizing as hell, “and I wish it were me. I wish I could be the woman you want me to be, but I can’t.”

  And he looks at me.

  The waiter comes over and says, “Is everything okay?”, and Ed ignores him, still looking at me, but I force a smile and tell him it’s fine but we’re not that hungry, and he raises an eyebrow, takes the plates away.

  And from there on in it is quite possibly the most awkward, uncomfortable, desperately sad evening I have ever spent. We sit there, Ed and I, in silence, Ed still looking at me, and me still looking around the restaur
ant, and when the bill finally comes we stand in silence and walk outside and into his car.

  “Umm, I think it’s probably a good idea for me to come back now and get my stuff.” It could have waited, but I want this over, I want to be out of this, I don’t want anything of mine to remain entangled with Ed’s life.

  So we go back to his house and Ed waits downstairs while I throw my nightdress, toothbrush, the few bits and pieces I had left there, into a bag, and when I come downstairs I find Ed sitting in the kitchen staring into space.

  He looks at me, stands up and walks outside to the car, and this time he doesn’t even attempt to use music to fill the silence that is becoming more and more oppressive by the second. And when, finally, we pull up outside my house, I look at him sadly, and twist his key off my key ring. “You’d better have this back,” I say, and he nods.

  “Can I call you?” I say, not because I want to call him, but because I can’t just climb out of the car and say goodbye. Because I have never been in this position before, and I have absolutely no idea how to end this cleanly, how to, in fact, end this at all. Ed shrugs, and then, evidently having thought about it, shakes his head, and we sit there for a while, both of us presumably feeling like shit, and then I reach over, kiss him on the cheek and get out of the car.

  He still hasn’t uttered a word.

  And later that night, while I’m lying in bed crying, because I never realized how much it would hurt to cause that much pain to someone who loves you, it suddenly strikes me that the reason Ed didn’t say anything at all, all evening, was because he was holding back the tears.

  I don’t bother getting up the next day. I ring the office at half past nine and croakily tell Jo I think I’ve picked up some kind of bug, and then burrow back under the duvet and sleep for another hour.

  At half ten I wrap myself up in the duvet and collapse on the sofa, and for the next hour and a half I watch crap daytime television to take my mind off the fact that I am on my own again, and that I have been a complete fool. Because how can you tell your friends that you were so desperate to get married you said yes to the first candidate who asked, even when you didn’t feel anything for him other than mild irritation and occasional bursts of friendship?

  How do you say that you have spent the past few months planning, in meticulous detail, your wedding day, without giving a second thought to what lies beyond?

  How can they understand that, despite my independence and so-called career, I was swept away by a fantasy, seduced by a lifestyle, and that I am evidently far more shallow than even I ever dreamed?

  The day passes in a bit of a blur. I try not to think about it too much, which is bloody difficult, because when I do I just feel enormously sad, and when Jo rings from the office and says I’ve had an urgent message to call Amanda, I think, fuck it, at least it will take my mind off things.

  “Amanda? It’s Libby.”

  “Darling!” she exclaims. “Poor you! They told me you were ill and I said it could wait, but your receptionist insisted on disturbing you at home.”

  A likely bloody story. Jo would never insist on something like that, and I know that Amanda would have demanded that they give her my number.

  “I’m okay,” I croak. “Just a bit under the weather.”

  “You’ll be fine soon,” she says breezily. “It’s just that I had a message from Cosmo this morning about wanting to interview me, and I wondered whether you could ring them back and set it up.”

  She rang me at home for that? When she could quite easily have picked up the phone herself and called, but then again, I suppose Amanda has to pretend she’s a megastar, and hence cannot talk to anyone personally.

  “Sure,” I sigh wearily. “I’ll ring them tomorrow.”

  “Great!” she enthuses. “Oh, and by the way, I had such a lovely time the other night. You’re so lucky, getting engaged! To Ed McMann!”

  “Actually,” I groan, knowing that if I don’t tell her now she’ll be furious when she eventually finds out, “actually it’s all off.”

  I think she stops breathing.

  “Amanda? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Sorry. It’s just that you two seemed so perfect together.”

  “Well, we weren’t.”

  “But you’re still together, surely, just not getting married yet?”

  “No. It’s over. Finished.”

  “Oh my God, poor, poor you. No wonder you’re not at work. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, and anyway, it wasn’t his decision, it was mine.”

  “You’re kidding?” She’s laughing.

  “No. Why?”

  “You dumped Ed McMann?” she splutters. “Are you completely mad?”

  “Jesus, Amanda, if you think he’s so great, why don’t you go out with him?”

  There’s another silence.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean to be rude. He’s just not for me, that’s all.”

  “Right. Right. I completely understand. Oh well, plenty more fish in the sea,” and a few seconds later she tells me her call waiting’s going and she’d better answer it, so we say goodbye.

  For a few minutes after I put the phone down I feel pretty damn awful. I mean, what if this is the last opportunity I’m ever going to have to get married? Maybe I have done the wrong thing. But then I remember his sad expression, his mustache, his habit of speaking French, and I know that I could never have gone through with it. Not for all the money in the world.

  Later that afternoon, when Jules has left the fourth message of the day, I pick up the phone and she says she’s coming over to check I’m okay.

  “You look terrible,” she says, as I open the door, still in pajamas.

  “Thanks,” I mutter. “What did you expect?”

  “Sorry, I just didn’t think you’d be this upset. You look like you’ve been crying for weeks.”

  “That’s how I feel.”

  “Come here,” she says, giving me a big hug, and when we pull apart I put the kettle on and make some tea, and we sit down as I give her all the details.

  “I can understand how hard this is for you, but now you’ve got to get on with your life, and look on the bright side. You’ll never make the same mistake again.”

  “I know,” I sigh. “It’s just that he seemed so hurt, he seemed to be in so much pain, and I don’t think I’ve ever caused anyone that much pain before, and that hurts me.”

  “You were, as the saying goes, cruel to be kind. Far better to have done it now, you know that.”

  “Yes. I do know that. Oh God, now I’ve got to start going to parties again and getting back into that bloody singles scene.”

  “It’s the best way of getting over someone.”

  “But I really don’t want anyone else. I just want to be alone for a while.”

  “What about Nick?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not ready for anything. And Nick isn’t what I’m looking for either. Although”—and for the first time in what feels like days, a glimmer of a smile crosses my face—“although it might be worth it again for the sex.”

  “Don’t you dare!” admonishes Jules. “You’re not getting into that whole just a fling business again.”

  “Jules?” I sink back into the sofa and start giggling, “You know what? Thank God I’ll never have to sleep with Ed again.”

  Jules starts to laugh. “Was it really that bad?”

  “No,” I say. “It was worse.”

  We carry on talking about it, and Jules makes me cups of tea, and generally treats me like an invalid, but I start to feel better, and as we talk I realize that, however upset I am, my foremost feeling is one of relief.

  And then suddenly, unexpectedly, the doorbell interrupts our conversation, and we both jump. Jules looks at me and whispers, “Are you expecting anyone?”

  “No,” I whisper back. “Shit, I hope it’s not Ed.”

  “Do you want me to get it?” she says, as I nod and settle back into the sofa, know
ing that whoever it is Jules will send them packing, and praying that it isn’t Ed, come to change my mind.

  She comes back into the living room and right behind her, literally on her heels, is the very last person I expect to see right now. Nick.

  Fuck.

  He looks embarrassed. I want to die. I look like shit. My hair hasn’t seen a brush since sometime early yesterday evening, I have no makeup on, save smudges of mascara underneath my eyes, and my flannel pajamas are hardly the stuff you’d want anyone other than your best friend to see. Ever.

  “Umm. Hi,” he says, as I wonder what the hell he’s doing here and what the hell right he has to look so gorgeous when I look so terrible, and why the hell I didn’t make an effort today just in case.

  But what is he doing here?

  “What are you doing here?”

  Before he has a chance to answer, Jules, grinning broadly, has slipped her coat on and is already inching out the door. “Gosh, is that the time?” she says. “Must be off. I’ll call you later.” And with that she’s gone.

  “So?” I persist. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the neighborhood and just happened to be passing, so I thought I’d drop a note in to apologize for what I said.”

  “What were you doing in this neighborhood?”

  “Umm.” I can see him desperately trying to think of something, and I watch him as his eyes flick around the room, looking for help. “Umm, I was dropping a video back.”

  “You borrowed a video from Ladbroke Grove when you live in Highgate?”

  “Oh, okay. So what? So I called your office and they said you were ill and I thought I’d come and see if you were okay, and I feel so guilty about all that stuff I said, and everything else, well. Umm. You know . . .”

  “There was no need to lie about it.”