by Jane Green
“So where are you now? Outside on your mobile while Lola”—even the mention of her name makes me feel ill—“waits in your car?”
“No. She’s gone home. She has her own car.”
I don’t say anything but I’m pleased. Perhaps it wasn’t a date. The Dan I know, the Dan I dated, always insisted on picking me up.
There’s a silence. Then: “I got your message.”
Oh, shit. The very words I have spent days waiting for. The very words I am now dreading since seeing Dan with her. Lola.
“Sorry about that,” I say curtly. Oh shit. What can I say? How can I get out of it? How can I excuse it? “I think I was slightly drunk. To be honest I can’t even remember what I said. Whatever it was, just ignore it.”
“You were drunk? At four o’clock in the afternoon?” I can hear the smile in Dan’s voice and I want to hit him.
“What is it, Dan?” I’m humiliated beyond belief, and I just want to get him off the phone and curl up in a corner somewhere and cry.
“I thought perhaps you were right. That we should talk. Maybe we can talk this weekend?”
I pause. But then I think about Lola. About Lola and Dan laughing. About Dan kissing Lola. I wonder if he makes the same moves with her as he does with me? I wonder if she’s better in bed than me? Oh, God. Please let me stop thinking about this.
“I can’t,” I say, my voice cold again. “I just can’t do this now, Dan. I’m sorry,” and as my voice starts to break, I gently put down the phone.
The tears last an hour, and when they are done I fish Charlie Dutton’s card out of my coat pocket. Fuck it. If Dan can have his little fling, or his big love, or whatever the hell he’s having with Lola, I can have mine with Charlie Dutton.
Is 10:45 P.M. too late to call? I’d never call anyone else, but this is a single man, on a Friday night. I doubt very much he’s even home. And anyway, tonight has given me courage, false or not, and if I don’t phone now, I may never call again.
It truly is now or never.
I phone and I was right. He’s out. His machine picks up and, trying to make my voice as normal as possible, I leave a message.
“Hi, Charlie. It’s Ellie. Ellie…Cooper.” For a second I was about to use my maiden name, and as I say my married name I think how duplicitous it makes me feel. “Ellie Black,” I say firmly, for if I’m going to be unfaithful, as I know I’m going to be, I’m going to do it under the guise of a single girl.
Surely that way I’ll feel less guilt?
“I just found your card, and wondered whether you’d like to get together some time. Give me a call.” I leave my number and put down the phone, congratulating myself on what a cool message I left.
And now it’s just a matter of time.
27
I can’t get the image of Dan and Lola out of my head. I see them at the restaurant, her hand reaching out to his, or my imagination works overtime and I picture them in every compromising position my tired mind can conjure up.
It fuels me. Fills me with rage. Fuels a puerile desire for revenge in the only way I know how, by sleeping with Charlie Dutton.
Poor Charlie Dutton. I wonder if he knows I have everything planned? I wonder if he knows I am planning to seduce him in the best way I know how: by sensual candlelight, seductive clothing, delicious food.
I’m halfway there, given that he already admitted he thinks I’m sexy. Surely all it needs is a little push. I think of Lola laying her lips on Dan, and I know there is no way I will let Charlie Dutton out of my clutches.
He didn’t sound surprised to hear from me. Delighted, in fact. He said he’d been meaning to phone me, and only seemed slightly surprised when I invited him over for dinner. On Saturday. A night when Tom’s away and the mice can play.
But it feels so long since I’ve played the seduction game, if indeed I ever really played it at all. This is surely Lisa’s field, not mine, and although I could ask her advice, probably should ask her advice, I can’t admit what I’m doing, can’t tell anyone about it until after the fact.
Not that I’m looking for a one-night stand, absolutely not. But I don’t know where it will lead, and I’m not thinking of the future, just of tonight.
The salmon is wrapped and in the fridge, waiting for its coat of tapenade and puff pastry; the salad is sitting crisply in its bag; and the lemon drizzle cake awaits the sighs of pleasure that always greet it, my pièce de résistance and, ironically, although naturally it never occurred to me at the time, Dan’s favorite.
I may not be wearing new clothes, not tonight, but I’m sure as hell wearing new underwear. My graying, fraying cotton bikini bottoms, unsightly flesh-colored bras, deeply unsexy but formidably practical, may be good enough for a husband but could never be good enough for a lover.
For that, I did take Lisa’s advice. I forgo Marks & Sparks for perhaps the first time in my life and head instead to Agent Provocateur. How embarrassing. How sexy. How completely unlike me. I walk out swinging my guilt on my wrist: delicate and delicious wisps of chiffon and lace. Underwear for the vampiest of vamps, the sluttiest of sluts.
And it is true that tonight I am role playing. Tonight I am not Ellie Cooper, or even Ellie Black. Ellie Black, single girl, would never have acted the way I am planning to act tonight. Ellie Black, single girl, would have thought Agent Provocateur was a bad guy from a Bond film. Ellie Black didn’t seduce, she allowed herself to be seduced, and even then only occasionally, and only if she’d been out with them for at least a month, and only if she was absolutely sure they really, really, really liked her.
Tonight I’m planning on being far more like Lisa than myself. I’m planning on lighting candles, playing Norah Jones softly on the stereo, sitting on the sofa with Charlie Dutton, and gazing at him soulfully over the rim of my glass of red wine.
If Charlie Dutton doesn’t make a move on me, which I have to say I’m sure he will, could ever a situation be more perfect? I fully intend to make a move on him, fueled by my desire for revenge—just thinking about Lola—and copious amounts of alcohol.
At eight o’clock I’m ready. Eight o’clock. A throwback in itself to my old life. Charlie’s coming at 8:15, and I walk around the flat nervously lighting candles before blowing them out again. Too obvious. Not yet. They will be lit but not until later in the evening.
But the fire is going—the nights are still chilly in late May—and I sit by it as I wait for him to arrive, refilling my glass as I quickly down the wine to build my confidence.
The doorbell rings. My heart starts to pound. Oh, God. What am I doing? Is it too late? Can I pretend I’m not here? But of course I can’t. Ellie Black, or Ellie Cooper, or even Ellie Vamp, is still far too polite, far too much of a nice girl to ever do something that rude, far too afraid that anyone would dislike her for behaving like that.
I walk down the hallway, every footstep sealing my fate. A quick glance in the mirror confirms what I already know. I do look good. Perhaps it’s because underneath my clothes I’m wearing the sexiest underwear I’ve ever seen, perhaps it’s because I’m slightly drunk, but there’s a twinkle in my eye and a flush to my cheek, and if I were Charlie Dutton, I’d definitely want to sleep with me.
“Hello.” I stand and smile at him, and he leans forward and places a chaste kiss on my cheek, handing over a huge and beautiful bunch of calla lilies.
“These are for you,” he says, following me inside.
“Thank you. They’re lovely.”
I tell Charlie to sit and wait in the living room while I busy myself in the kitchen, finding a vase for the flowers. Suddenly I’m very nervous. This isn’t a dream. This isn’t a fantasy. There is a man in my flat whom I’m planning on sleeping with and it’s not my husband. This is suddenly feeling very strange.
And very wrong.
“Would you like some wine?” I call, wishing now that I could spend the rest of the night in the kitchen, find a way of avoiding the unavoidable.
“A glass of red would b
e lovely,” he calls back. “Can I do anything to help?”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll be in in a minute. Just make yourself comfortable.” I cringe at my words. How clichéd they sound. How clichéd this situation is. This…date. I was so sure my dating days were over, so happy I wouldn’t ever have to do this again, and yet here I am.
I take a deep breath and carry our two glasses of wine back into the living room, where I find Charlie standing in front of the bookshelves, examining the books. He turns and smiles at me, and I start to relax. This is only a man, for God’s sake. You don’t have to do anything, Ellie. Just have a nice dinner and a nice chat. You can get out of this alive. Honestly.
“I always think you can tell so much about people from their bookshelves.”
“Oh?” I stand next to him and look where he’s been looking: Dan’s nonfiction interspersed with my design books, my fiction hardbacks, various wedding gifts dotted here and there—crystal bowls we’ve never had any use for, Limoges boxes that would look more at home in Dan’s grandmother’s house than in mine, and lots and lots of photographs of Tom. Tom when he was first born, his scrunched-up face red and angry as he’s held up for the camera. Tom being cuddled by Dan, Tom with me, Tom crawling, Tom sleeping…
“I suppose you’ve deduced that we…that I…” I say, correcting myself hastily, “love my son.” I wish I had thought to remove the pictures of Tom with Dan, remove any evidence of Dan entirely.
Charlie laughs. “I should hope you do. He’s gorgeous.”
“He is, isn’t he?” I relax, comfortable in familiar territory at last. “I’m ever so slightly biased, but I do think he’s the most divine baby in the world.”
“When will he be two?”
“August.”
“Just wait till he turns two,” he grins. “That’s when the fun really starts.”
“How old is yours again?”
“Five. But the twos were the worst. You’ll have your hands full. Is he here? Sleeping?”
I shake my head. “No. He’s with Dan on the weekends. What about Finn? Don’t you have him on weekends?”
“Usually, but my ex and her boyfriend have taken him away to the country for the weekend.”
My ex. I wonder when Dan will stop being Dan and will become my ex, or if indeed he will ever become my ex. When do they stop being part of your life? When are you able to refer to them dispassionately, with no connection, no feeling, no sign of pain? I can’t imagine ever referring to Dan as my ex. Not yet. But I will not think about this tonight. I take a large sip of wine.
“So, you still haven’t told me what you’ve deduced from my bookshelves.”
Charlie smiles and turns to the bookshelves, before turning back to me.
“Hmm. Let’s see. I’m going to assume that the nonfiction books on history and various film things don’t belong to you, which leaves someone who has a passion for design, who reads all the latest best sellers but who has a secret penchant for crappy beach reads, although she tries not to display them, and I definitely see that when you got married there were far too many old relatives at the wedding and not nearly enough friends.”
I laugh. “How on earth could you tell that?”
“Because I got all that crystal and those small painted box things too. They were the only things I was happy to let my ex have when we split up.”
“When did you split up?”
“Four years ago. Why do you ask?”
I move toward the sofa and sit down. “You seem to talk about her so easily, with no emotion whatsoever. I just wondered when I’d get there.”
“Honestly, I think it takes different people different amounts of time. It took me a long time, but we’re friends now, of a fashion. Not that I’d invite her over, but we’ve always tried to be civil, for Finn’s sake. This is still very new to you, and”—he pauses, a slight smile on his face—“probably far too early for you to be inviting strange men over to your flat for dinner.” He grins, holding my gaze as he takes a sip of wine, and two things happen to me simultaneously: I blush—God, how I hate my cheeks constantly giving me away—and I feel that rush of desire. I hold his gaze for a second more than I’m comfortable with, then say, with as sweet and innocent a smile as I can muster: “But you’re not strange.”
“Touché.” He smiles, and raises his glass.
“Let me just go and start getting the supper ready.”
I stand up and he follows me into the kitchen.
“I’m a kitchen wizard,” he says, “let me help.”
We chat, laugh, and drink some more as I put the salmon in the oven and Charlie chops the salad. There is something so familiar and yet so unfamiliar about this whole scene. Once again I realize how much I miss being part of a couple, for cooking with someone else, something so prosaic, so everyday, suddenly becomes so special when you’re not doing it anymore.
It feels so normal to hand Charlie a knife, the chopping board, the vegetables. And yet, as he chops the salad, finely chopping the cucumber and the tomato, I want to stop him, to tell him that Dan doesn’t do it like that, that we don’t like it chopped, that the tomatoes and cucumbers should be sliced, that he is doing it wrong.
But of course I don’t say that. I just enjoy how the kitchen comes to life when there is more than just Tom and me in it. How Norah Jones manages to create a feeling of warmth and relaxation, how I am suddenly enjoying this evening far more than I had anticipated, especially because it is not as I expected.
I do fancy Charlie. Did fancy Charlie. There is no denying that. But now that he’s here, now that the fantasy has become a reality, it isn’t the smoldering, sensual evening I had imagined. I am having fun. We’re not flirting; we’re talking. And we’re not kissing; we’re laughing. It feels as if I am making dinner with a friend, and suddenly I realize that I am having a good time, and that actually I don’t want to sleep with Charlie, and, more than that, I don’t have to sleep with Charlie. This is about making a new friend, and that thought relaxes me and makes me smile.
“What are you smiling to yourself about?”
“I was just thinking that I’m having a good time,” I say. “Come on. Let’s eat,” and together we take the food into the living room and sit down at the dining table.
Charlie goes into raptures about the food.
“You’re behaving like someone who hasn’t eaten a decent meal in months,” I laugh, as he polishes off his salmon, asks for seconds, then eats three huge slices of lemon drizzle cake.
“Being a bachelor and cooking don’t really go together.”
“I thought the way to a woman’s heart was through her stomach?”
“No, that’s the way to a man’s heart.”
“I know; I was joking, although don’t all single women say that there’s nothing sexier than a man who can cook?”
“I don’t know, do they? You’re a single woman, you tell me.”
“Okay, there’s nothing sexier than a man who can cook.” Now it’s my turn to tease.
Charlie holds my gaze with a smile. “Does that mean you don’t find me sexy because I can’t cook?”
Jesus Christ. Talk about getting straight to the point. He’s looking at me, waiting for an answer, and I don’t know what to say. My intentions of seduction are long gone, my plans to behave like Lisa now firmly out the window. I stammer like a teenager, then quickly mumble something about clearing up. I stand, grab the plates and take them into the kitchen, where I attempt to steady myself against the kitchen sink, eyes closed as I take deep breaths to regain my equilibrium.
I don’t hear him come in. Don’t know he’s there until I feel his warm breath on my neck. He’s standing behind me, so close I can almost feel his heartbeat, can feel the whisper of his skin against mine.
My heart stops. I can’t breathe.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he whispers into my ear, his lips brushing my earlobe and my knees feel weak. I start to turn to say something, anything, and his face is there
, centimeters from mine, and my eyes close and we’re kissing, and I think that I ought to push him away, ought not to be doing this, but it feels so good.
So very, very good.
His arms wrap around me. Arms so different from Dan’s. Mouth so different from Dan’s. He tastes sweet. Musky. Strong. His hands caress the back of my head and I raise my hands to feel his back, not swept away on the wave of passion I had expected, but curious, wanting to know how he feels, this new body crushed up against me in my kitchen.
His shoulder blades are sharper than Dan’s, his waist larger, a small comfortable cushion of spare flesh I hadn’t noticed before.
We move without speaking into the living room, where we lie on the sofa, exploring one another’s contours, kissing and murmuring, smiling at one another.
I know he is turned on. I can feel he is turned on. And I know I ought to be turned on, especially given the feelings he has roused in me prior to this night, and yet I still feel like a spectator, am continuing with the moment despite not being in the moment. It is as close as I will probably ever come to having an out-of-body experience, for every time he touches me, every time I touch him, I am so aware of how it feels, how different it feels to when I am with Dan.
It brings all the memories of Dan flooding back. We hadn’t had sex in such a long time before he left that I hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t remembered how lovely it was, how much we had both enjoyed it, and how wonderful it was to have reached that point with someone where you didn’t have to try, you weren’t putting on a performance, you were just loving someone in the best way you knew, and they were loving you in return.
Charlie murmurs something about getting even more comfortable, moving to the bedroom, and I nod, because suddenly I can’t trust myself to speak, for there is a lump in my throat, and when he moves toward me to kiss me again I shake my head and sit up, pushing him gently away.
Charlie sits back and looks at me, his hair tousled, his shirt half undone.
“I knew this wasn’t a good idea,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I knew it was too soon.”