The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘Um, I think so,’ I say, feeling rather pathetic now. ‘What … which one?’

  ‘The senior art director role,’ says Damian. ‘It’s going to be up for grabs when the current guy leaves and Connor’s putting his heart and soul into this branding job for the sports company so he can be in with a chance of promotion.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say, taking a sip of water. Why didn’t Connor tell me that? ‘Of course he is. I feel terrible now.’

  ‘Hey, it’s natural to feel that way,’ he says, smiling. ‘Listen, why don’t you organize a date night? Book a table at a nice gaff, that sort of thing. I think the two of you need a break.’

  ‘I might do,’ I say as Damian opens the door and the sound of Lewis Capaldi fills the air. ‘And thanks for listening, Damian. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Ach, sure it’s nothing,’ he says, winking at me as he goes out.

  I return my thoughts to the press release but as I’m trying to make sense of it, my stomach knots as I recall something Damian said about the senior role.

  ‘It’s going to be up for grabs when the current guy leaves.’

  The senior art director is a man. So why, then, did Connor tell me it was a gay woman called Sara who calls everyone ‘darling’ and whose texts I shouldn’t be worried about?

  It’s 11.30 by the time Connor gets back. I’m sitting on the roof terrace drinking a cup of camomile tea and scrolling, rather half-heartedly, through the Dream Properties app.

  ‘Hey, you,’ he says sleepily as he comes out on to the terrace. ‘What are you doing up so late?’

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ I say, wrapping the blanket round my shoulders. ‘It’s been a long evening on my own.’

  ‘Well, I do apologize,’ he says, sighing heavily. ‘If it’s any consolation, my dinner consisted of two Rich Tea biscuits and a packet of crisps. Look, Vanessa, you’re obviously in one of your moods and I haven’t got the energy for it tonight. As if it wasn’t enough you embarrassing me at the boxing match.’

  ‘How did I embarrass you?’ I cry.

  ‘I’m not doing this, Vanessa,’ he says, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  He walks into the flat, slamming the door behind him.

  My chest tightens with a mixture of shock and regret. I hadn’t meant my words to come out like that. I’d wanted to be cheerful when he came home, ask him if he wanted a cup of tea, talk about the new job he’s going for, but after being by myself all night and staring at page after page of properties, my head feels foggy. That, and the fact that I can’t stop thinking about the text from Sara. I had completely dismissed it from my mind once Connor had explained who she was but after hearing that the senior art director is a man, I can’t shake this uneasy feeling. Am I just remembering wrong? Or did he lie to me?

  I’m leaving the office the following day when I get a text message.

  I’m sorry about last night, baby. I shouldn’t have snapped at you but I was just really tired. Things have eased up today so I’ve left early and I’m having a drink at Rossi’s. Fancy joining me?

  I smile as I change direction and turn from Sloane Square towards the King’s Road. Don’t fuck things up tonight, I tell myself as I wait at the traffic lights opposite Peter Jones, no more paranoia.

  Connor is sitting outside when I arrive, a crisp early spring sunlight illuminating his face. When he sees me, he stands up and gives me a long, lingering kiss.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers as he pulls away.

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ I say, taking a seat at the rickety wooden table. ‘I was being a grouch. Anyway, let’s start again, shall we?’

  I realize, as I say those words, that we’ve been doing a lot of that lately: having arguments and starting again. It’s exhausting.

  ‘Okay. Now, Rocco has already been out to inform me that tonight’s specials are wild boar tortellini and spaghetti vongole,’ he says, pouring me a glass of water from the jug. ‘But I told him that we both know Vanessa will just stick to her usual.’

  ‘How rude,’ I say, making light of his comment though the meaning behind it – that I’m so predictable – stings. ‘In that case, I shall have the vongole.’

  ‘Living dangerously,’ says Connor, gesturing to Rocco, the elderly maître d’, who has run this restaurant since the 1970s. ‘I think I’ll have the same.’

  After we order, we sit for a moment in silence. There are many things I want to talk to Connor about, but I’m fearful. We’ve been so out of sync these last few weeks and everything I say comes out the opposite of what I intended.

  ‘So, Damian says you’re having a hard time at work,’ says Connor, breaking the silence. ‘You should have said something.’

  ‘What?’ I say, pausing as Rocco arrives with the bread basket, a bottle of Chianti and two glasses.

  ‘You don’t have to get defensive,’ says Connor once Rocco has gone back inside. ‘Damian didn’t mean anything bad by it. He’s just worried about you.’

  My head feels strange, like someone is squeezing it tighter and tighter. I think back to yesterday’s conversation with Damian. At no point did I say I was having a hard time at work. I just said I was finding it hard not seeing Connor.

  ‘I didn’t tell Damian I was having a hard time at work,’ I say, trying my best to keep calm. ‘Work’s going great. The best it’s ever been.’

  My voice is strained and I know I sound odd but I’m being accused of saying something I didn’t say.

  ‘Look, it’s no big deal,’ says Connor, taking a piece of bread from the basket and spreading it with butter. ‘Damian’s a good bloke. He wasn’t causing trouble, just looking out for you, that’s all.’

  I’m about to respond when Rocco appears with the food. He places a huge plate of steaming spaghetti in front of me. I look down at the watery clams and my stomach churns.

  ‘Wow, this looks amazing,’ says Connor, tucking in. ‘Good choice, Vanessa.’

  I take a forkful of spaghetti and put it in my mouth. It tastes of salt and seawater. I immediately regret ordering it though I know I’ll have to finish it; if I don’t, it will prove to Connor and Rocco that I’m as boring and predictable as they say I am.

  ‘So, how’s your work going?’ I say, taking a long sip of wine in the hope that it will eliminate the clammy taste in my mouth.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ says Connor, raising his eyebrows. ‘It’s going well though this branding job for UC Boxing is taking longer than we anticipated. Their marketing guy is a nitpicker with no knowledge of branding or design, and he’s been a bit of a nightmare to deal with. I think we’ll all be glad when it’s over.’

  ‘Sounds exhausting,’ I say. ‘But it will be worth it in the end.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ he says, looking down at his plate. When he looks up, I see his eyes are watering.

  ‘Connor,’ I say, putting my fork down and reaching my hand to his. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  ‘I … I just don’t want to lose you, Vanessa,’ he says, his face crumpling. ‘I know it’s been hard these last few weeks and we’ve bickered but … the thought of us not being together, it –’

  ‘Who said we’re not going to be together?’ I say, rubbing his hand gently. ‘I love you, Connor.’

  ‘Do you?’ he says, leaning forward and clasping my hand in his. ‘You’re not getting sick of me?’

  ‘No,’ I say, thinking back to the first time we made love, the feeling of safety and warmth I’d never had before. ‘We’ve been busy, you’re right, and it’s been a shock after the early months when we were living in each other’s pockets, but that’s what being in a relationship is all about. Being patient, understanding each other.’

  ‘I don’t deserve you,’ he says, taking a napkin and wiping his eyes. ‘I really don’t.’

  ‘Finished?’

  I look up and see Rocco standing in the fading light of the evening sun.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, hoping h
e doesn’t comment on the small pile of uneaten clams wedged at the edge of my plate. ‘That was lovely.’

  ‘You like dessert? Coffee, perhaps?’

  ‘Two espressos,’ says Connor, collecting himself. ‘Thanks, Rocco.’

  ‘I meant what I said,’ I say, lightly brushing his leg with my foot. ‘I love you. You mean everything to me.’

  He smiles and is about to say something when I feel someone standing behind me.

  ‘Hanif,’ cries Connor, getting to his feet. ‘How’s it going, mate?’

  I turn to see a young man dressed sharply in a dark-grey suit and sunglasses, who I recognize as one of the men Connor was with at the boxing club.

  ‘Not bad, C,’ he says. ‘Just meeting some of the others outside the tube. We’re off to the Silkscreen Club in Knightsbridge to see Daisy Dangerfield. Everyone’s going to be there, including Richard.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Connor, looking at me, his smile fading.

  I know that Richard is his boss and I know from the expression on Connor’s face that he thinks he should go and join his team, show willing.

  ‘You should come along, mate,’ says Hanif. ‘You too, er – sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘This is Vanessa,’ says Connor, before I get the chance to reply. ‘What time are you guys heading down there?’

  ‘Doors open at 7 p.m.,’ he says, taking out his phone. ‘There’s a free bar for the first hour so we’ll make the most of that then hang around for the show. Listen, I better go, that’s Rach texting to say they’re outside the tube. Might see you down there, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Connor, glancing at me nervously. ‘You might. See you, mate.’

  When Hanif is out of earshot he turns to me. ‘Look, it’s okay. I know you won’t want to go,’ he says, his mouth turning down at the corners. ‘I know what you’re like and burlesque won’t be your thing, it’s just she’s this new client, you know. But, like you said, this is our evening and –’

  ‘Shh,’ I say, pressing my finger to his mouth. ‘I’d like to go. It’ll be a laugh.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he says, the thin line of his lips lifting into a tight smile.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, reaching under the table for my bag. ‘Just give me five minutes to freshen up then we’ll head over.’

  ‘Thanks, baby,’ he says, kissing my hand. ‘Look at you being all adventurous – it’s a whole new person!’

  Inside the Ladies I feel anything but. I stand looking at my reflection in the mirror and my heart sinks. It’s been a long week and it shows in my face. There are dark circles under my eyes and I’ve got premenstrual spots appearing on my cheeks that no amount of Luna London concealer seems to be able to hide. My hair is in need of a wash and the black trouser suit and white T-shirt I hastily dressed in this morning is not really the right look for an evening in a Knightsbridge burlesque club. Still, I think to myself, it will be dark in there and I owe it to Connor to go along with him after running out of the boxing match like that. I want to make it up to him. I add some highlighter to my cheeks, apply some of the new Luna London Ripe Red lipstick and scoop my hair into a chignon. There, I think, that will just have to do.

  I walk back through the restaurant, preparing myself mentally for the night ahead, and I’m so lost in thought that I nearly crash into someone coming towards me.

  ‘Ooh,’ I exclaim as I stumble.

  The man grabs my arm to steady me.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ he says, a West Country lilt to his voice. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I say, brushing him off.

  He says something as he walks away but my focus is fixed on Connor. He is standing outside the window, his phone pressed to his ear. I hurry out to join him, and as I do he ends the call and stuffs the phone in his pocket.

  ‘Right,’ he says, taking my hand in his. ‘Let’s go and see what this is all about.’

  The club is heaving by the time we get there. It’s a small space dominated by velvet sofas and gilt mirrors. A speeded-up remix of Madonna’s ‘Justify My Love’ plays out over the speakers and I see that the DJ, standing in her booth, earphones pressed to her face, is an ex-reality TV contestant. It’s an odd place. I turn to Connor to point out the famous DJ but he’s already making his way over to what looks like the VIP area on the other side of the room. He stops halfway and gestures at me to follow him.

  When I reach the velvet rope that cordons off the VIP area from the rest of the club, someone thrusts a glass of champagne into my hands. I’ve already had three glasses of Chianti and don’t normally mix my drinks, but the champagne is ice cold and refreshing, and I take a large glug of it as Connor holds out his hand and leads me inside.

  ‘You made it then?’ says Hanif, who is sitting on a red velvet sofa with two women and three men. One of the women, a strikingly attractive blonde with bobbed hair and a tight black dress, jumps to her feet and hugs Connor.

  ‘I’m so glad you came,’ she shrieks, almost spilling her champagne.

  At this point, I’m expecting Connor to turn to me and make introductions. Instead, he sits down on the sofa next to Hanif, the blonde girl sits on his other side and I’m left standing like a spare part. It will look churlish if I try to squeeze in beside Connor so I sit on the opposite sofa and try to catch his eye. Stop being paranoid, Vanessa.

  My champagne glass has been refilled for the third time and I’m starting to feel a little light-headed. Hanif and the blonde girl have left the sofa and gone to mingle while Connor has been joined by a tall, elegant man with white hair and tanned skin, who I assume, from Connor’s body language, is Richard, his boss. They talk for a few minutes, then Richard gets up and leaves. Taking this as my cue, I go over to where Connor is sitting. He looks up and smiles.

  ‘Hey, sorry about that,’ he says, patting the spot that Richard has just vacated. ‘Work stuff.’

  I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve drunk too much champagne but Connor’s voice sounds odd, manic almost. I try to engage him in conversation but the music is so loud we can barely hear each other. Then he leans towards me and bellows in my ear, ‘Wait here a sec. Just going for a pee.’

  I watch as he crosses the VIP area, pausing to speak to the blonde woman. Her cheek presses against his as she leans in to whisper something in his ear, her hand clutching his arm.

  ‘All right?’

  Hanif flops down on the sofa next to me, looking rather dishevelled.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I say, my throat hurting from having to raise my voice.

  A woman appears in front of us with a tray of champagne. I shake my head but Hanif takes two glasses and hands me one.

  ‘Go on,’ he says, thrusting it into my hand. ‘You have to make the most of a free bar.’

  I smile politely, then scan the room for Connor. There’s no sign of him. I see the blonde woman standing at the bar, chatting animatedly. Something about her unsettles me though I can’t put my finger on it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I say to Hanif, my lips loosened by the drink. ‘The blonde woman by the bar.’

  ‘Oh, that’s Sara,’ he says, his voice coming in and out of range. ‘She works in accounts.’

  My body judders.

  ‘I thought Sara was the art director,’ I holler into Hanif’s ear. ‘Is that her girlfriend she’s talking to?’

  He gives me a strange look.

  ‘Nah,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘The art director’s a bloke called Ian. And that’s Jess, Richard’s wife. Sara doesn’t have a girlfriend.’

  I go to speak but as I do there’s an explosion of light and colour and music.

  ‘Here we go,’ says Hanif, pulling me to my feet. ‘Showtime.’

  He drags me out of the VIP area towards the stage. I can see movement up there but it’s just a blur of reds and golds and pinks. The music grows louder, there’s a stamping of feet and then I feel someone’s hands on my waist.

  I turn round and see Connor.


  ‘This is great, isn’t it?’ he says, pressing his face into my neck.

  I nod my head, try to focus on what is happening on the stage, but I’m so tired I can barely stand up. I hear a high-pitched female voice and a thudding bass beat.

  The room fragments into neon pieces. I feel my legs buckle and I reach out to hold on to something solid. A man asks me if I’m okay. I look up at him but his features melt into the background. The music grows louder; my head feels like it will burst. Someone’s hand is on my back, pushing me forward.

  Next thing I know I feel a blast of cold air. I hear Connor’s voice though it sounds like it’s coming at me from a great distance. I see the lights of a taxi. It stops and I’m bundled inside. I turn to see Connor get in beside me. The taxi moves off and I can see the lights of Sloane Square up ahead, but my eyes are heavy, my head thick with drink. I put my head on Connor’s shoulder, close my eyes and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  17. Now

  ‘There you are,’ says Georgie as I return to the kitchen. ‘I was getting worried.’

  In my absence, she has warmed up and served the pasta and has also made a large green salad. Jack is grating Parmesan into a dish and looks up at me wearily.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, I … er, I just got a bit distracted,’ I say, sitting down at the table. ‘This salad looks lovely. Oh, now I feel really bad. You were supposed to have tonight off.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just a bag of rocket with a bit of olive oil drizzled over,’ says Georgie, her words slurring. ‘This pasta is delicious, darling. Well done.’

  Beside me, I notice Jack raise his eyebrow though I’m not sure if the expression is aimed at my tardiness or Georgie’s tipsiness. It’s clear she’s had a couple more glasses of wine while I’ve been upstairs.

  ‘Cheese?’ says Jack, offering me the dish.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it and sprinkling a teaspoonful over my pasta.

  The food is comforting though all I can think of is the missed calls.