Love to Hate You (28 page)

“So you didn't have a fight with Ian,” he says, as if it were nothing.

“What's Ian got to do with it?” I ask, alarmed. “Don't worry,” he says, “nobody knows anything.”

“Because there is nothing
to
know,” I say firmly.

“If you say so. But if you want to talk to someone about it—”

He's obviously not going to let it drop, so maybe it'd be better to be honest. “What do you think you know?” I ask, slightly anxiously.

“Nothing. Except that you're going out together,” he says, as though there were nothing wrong with that.

“We're not going out together!” I exclaim, startled.

George looks at me in a puzzled way.

“We see each other once in a while,” I explain. Put like that, it sounds more acceptable.

“Once in a while?” he smiles.

“Ok we're seeing each other! But we're not going out! Absolutely no way! It's just a temporary relationship. It's not really a relationship at all, to be honest.”

George looks at me. “I see you're trying your best to resist.”

“Resist what?” I ask, not knowing what to think.

“Ian. You don't want to fall in love with him.” His tone is casual, but his comment isn't.

“I'm not trying to resist anyone. That's ridiculous!” I say, flushing.

He shrugs. “Maybe,” he admits, “but I've seen things. Personally I've always thought that your quarrels were the result of a repressed mutual attraction.” I stare at him, not knowing what to say.

“And I'd say that it's not repressed any more,” he says, trying to make me smile.

“And now that we've expressed them, why don't we lock them away in the attic?”

“Why? Don't you like being with him?” he asks.

I shake my head. “You see, you don't understand. I like being with him too much.”

“And what's wrong with that?” he asks, confused. There's no hope, men will never understand the female sex.

“A girl can't relax with someone like Ian, because Ian needs to see a different woman every night.”

“Is he seeing someone else?” he asks without blinking.

“I don't think so, but what's—”

He interrupts me, almost with disdain. “Don't ask me what that's got to do with it, please.”

“Ok, I won't.” I smile nervously. “I'll just say that he needs to be unconditionally adored, and I'm not cut out for that.”

“From what I can see, he's actually enjoyed being brought back down to earth by you rather a lot,” says George, with an allusive expression.

“George, I'm begging you to stop this,” I tell him abruptly.

He seems satisfied. “Come on, don't take on so. You've both been so hard-nosed in recent years, and now that I see a few signs of you finally letting yourself relax a bit, I'm beginning to enjoy myself,” he tells me, not looking in the least bit guilty.

“What signs of letting myself relax?” I ask in surprise.

“Just little things, but don't panic. I've noticed that recently, he looks at you differently when you meet in the corridor. You two often exchange secret little looks. And you know what they say, actions speak louder than words—”

His tone is partly ironic, but to some extent what he's telling me is true, I realise sadly.

“Thank you, George, I appreciate your sincerity,” I admit, the tone of my voice making it clear that I consider the matter closed.

And in fact, he understands immediately. “Ok, I'm off. If you need me you know where to find me.”

*

A few hours later I'm still reflecting on George's words. I'm brought back to earth by an e-mail from Ian, whose image on the screen makes me jump. This man is not only invading my life, but also my mind and my computer!

“Lunch?” it says. No way!

“I'm busy. Sorry,” I write and click 'send'. I'm not, but I'm not going to lunch with him, because what George said is true: I'm falling head over heels in love with him, and losing my head for the person I'm least suited to in all the world, and I'm heading for the biggest fall of my life if I keep going down this road. I've already put up with enough from far less attractive people. There's absolutely no need to go through it all again with him.

I must do something, anything. But what?

After wracking my brains for what seems like ages, I suddenly have a brilliant idea. I grab the phone and call my sister Stacey, who answers after several rings, sounding quite surprised.

“Hello Jenny,” she says, “to what do I owe the honour?”

Things have been tense between us since that famous kiss, and we haven't really spoken about it at all. But I've noticed all of her digs anyway, not to mention the hypercritical schoolma'am looks that she loves giving me.

“I was thinking about your offer to introduce me to that friend of Tom's.”

“Who, Eliott?” she asks, trying to hide the hint of joy in her voice.

“Yes, why not?” I ask, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“So things with Ian didn't work out, then—” she mutters reproachfully.

“Stacey, there's never been anything between me and Ian.”

She's silent for a moment as if to say ‘yeah, right', then returns to the subject which is closer to her heart. “Anyway, it doesn't matter now. Let's think about Eliott! I can give him your number and tell him to call you, if that's okay.”

“I'd say that's perfect.” I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm actually convinced that I've made a wise decision.

“Sis, finally this is a smart move.”

I can only hope so with all my heart.

*

Eliott calls me that night while I'm driving home. His voice is friendly, calm and reassuring.

We chat for a few minutes about my sister and her husband and then he tells me that he lives just outside London and would love to take me to a nice restaurant in town. I gladly accept and we agree on Saturday night.

We say goodbye with the promise to speak again to decide where.

Finally, I arrive home, and my phone begins to ring again.

“What's is it, Ian?” I ask him abruptly, after seeing his name appear on the phone. I try to overcome the butterflies in my stomach: such a childish reaction, I must stop it immediately.

“I just wanted to talk to you, seeing as I didn't get a chance today,” he tells me, not at all bothered by my tone of voice. Lately, he's been in the habit of not getting put off by my bad moods. At least before we had a good excuse for a fight, but now he takes his time to reflect on things.

“I was a bit busy.” I hate feeling guilty, but right now it's all I can do.

“If you'd hung on we could have had a drink together,” he says.

“I had a headache and couldn't wait to leave work.” I say. In a way it's true.

“I have a proposal,” he says, excitedly. “How about going away this weekend?”

Oh dear. “And where would you like to go?” I ask.

“My parents have a lovely house in the country, and they never go there. I thought I'd show you the place,” he suggests.

Better not. “I'm busy this weekend,” I say. Sooner or later I would have had to tell him.

“What do you mean ‘busy'?” he asks, sensing something unpleasant.

“I have a date on Saturday.”

“With a man?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, trying not to be intimidated.

“Who?” he asks.

“A friend of Tom and Stacey's, I've never met him before.”

“And why do you want to meet him now?” he asks, as though it's a perfectly normal question.

What do you mean ‘why'? I raise my eyes to the ceiling. I'm tempted to hang up and put an end to this ridiculous conversation. “Because I'm looking for the right boyfriend, remember?” I'd hoped that was clear.

“Are you serious?” he asks me, as if I were crazy.

“Totally serious,” I answer.

“You're going out on a Saturday night with a guy you've never met before?” Is he deaf?

“Yes,” I say, not knowing what else to add.

“And you're not coming away with me?” Ok, now he's really angry.

“Exactly,” I confirm.

“What the hell are you trying to do?” he snaps. Probably because he can't stand the fact that I might prefer someone else.

“Listen, Ian,” I shout, “I've been telling you for weeks that we have to stop seeing each other, we have to try and find people who are
right
for us! Well, at least I'm trying to meet someone who's right! Is that clear?”

“Yes, very clear!” he snaps, slamming the phone down.

What an awful temper he's got, I think as I collapse onto my bed. Something tells me that this week is going to be really difficult.

I'm sitting on a stool at the bar of the restaurant Eliott has chosen for our appointment, waiting to meet this man that I've have heard so much about. I can't say my hopes are particularly high, but the last few days have been so full of bad blood that meeting someone else can only do me good.

As I'd predicted, Ian was odious all week: he provoked me in every possible way, and even tried to pick a fight about the stationery. Needless to say, everyone in the office had their antennae pricked up, as we went from the calm of the previous weeks to the storm of the century. Worse, much worse than normal. And for us, 'normal' was already bad enough.

Ian is really pissed off, and when someone like him is pissed off, the walls shake.

Even Tamara has complained to George: she can't understand how it's possible that her boss went home on Monday night practically whistling and came back on Tuesday morning looking so angry that she actually found it hard to recognize him.

Everyone has been wondering about the reason for my awful mood, but no one has yet found a solution.

A little while ago George sent me an e-mail begging me to make peace with Ian, to save his sweetheart another week of working with a monster. Ah, if only it were that easy. Incidentally, I don't think I've done anything wrong: Ian has always known the way things are, so he can't start getting offended now just because things aren't going the way he'd like them to. Someone a bit less grounded than me might take all this as a clear sign that he cares about me, but I have my feet planted firmly on terra firma and I know the way things are: Ian loves himself, and everything else comes second – his anger is probably just from wounded pride. And when it comes to pride, the man's got enough to supply the whole Thames estuary.

*

I'm sipping a martini when I see a plump blonde guy appear in the distance and give me a broad smile as he makes his way over.

“Hello, Jennifer,” he greets me cordially, shaking my hand.

“Hello, Eliott,” I answer, surprised he recognised me so quickly.

“Your sister showed me a photo of you,” he explains, noticing my amazement. “I couldn't go wrong.”

“That explains everything,” I say with a smile.

“I hope that I live up to expectations,” he says, sounding a little more serious.

He has nothing to fear – he's exactly the type of person I was hoping to meet. “I am sure you will,” I re-assure him, looking at him closely. Bright brown eyes, short hair, friendly smile, casually dressed: I'm starting to appreciate men who don't wear tailored shirts that cost at least a hundred quid each, with their initials hand embroidered on the breast by Greek virgins.

A few minutes later, a waiter seats us.

“So what do you do?” I ask him.

“I'm a child psychologist. At the moment I'm working with several charities helping out with the more complex cases,” he explains patiently.

“That's really admirable,” I say, impressed.

“Well, it's not enormously well paid, but it does give me a lot of satisfaction. And you, what do you do?” he asks, sounding interested. My sister will certainly have already told him everything, but I appreciate him asking me directly. Stacey doesn't typically waste much praise on my job.

“I'm a tax lawyer at a large investment bank, I deal with personal and business consultations.”

“Wow, that sounds important,” he says, sounding daunted, and his reaction makes me laugh.

“I'm not complaining,” I say honestly. “But it's much less important than it sounds.”

We talk about work a little, and then move on to the menu.

“Since you're from London and you know this place well, what do you recommend?” he asks. “By the way, I forgot to tell you – I'm a vegan.”

“Really? I'm a vegetarian!” I answer enthusiastically.

“We've got a lot in common, according to your sister,” he informs me with a wink.

“Dear old Stacey… she'll have told you a pack of lies about me to talk you into taking me out. I'm afraid that you'll have to revise your expectations quite a bit after you've got to know me better.”

He gives me an interested look. “If anything, I'd say so far that she didn't sing your praises enough.”

He really believes it, and I am grateful.

“Oh, believe me – I've got plenty of flaws,” I say sincerely.

The waiter arrives shortly afterwards to take our orders: grilled fish for me and a vegetable pie for Eliott, who also insists that I choose the wine.

“Excellent choice,” he says a few minutes later, taking a sip from his glass.

“I'm no expert, but you can always rely on a Pinot Grigio,” I say.

He smiles at me. “I'll try to keep it in mind for next time.”

The first impression must have been positive if he's already talking about a next time, I think with satisfaction.

Another fifteen minutes of pleasant conversation about psychology and his research follow: he's an interesting guy, I have to admit.

“By the way,” says Eliott, while we are eating, “even if I wasn't a psychologist, I'd be able to say that the way that man is staring at you is almost clinically obsessive.”