‘I think you’re confusing lesbians with heterosexual men,’ I say.
He looks mildly irked that I am treating his argument with such disdain, when actually I am restraining myself from calling him a halfwit. He’s not a halfwit at all, he’s unbelievably shrewd, but maybe just a reactionary chauvinist. Either way, he looks hot when he’s angry.
I open his card. It has a black and white picture of an
old granny, sitting on a sofa with a teapot on her lap. Inside he has written:
‘To my favourite Sofa. I’m never more comfortable than when I’m with you.’
I have moved from ‘Queen of Puddings’ to ‘Green-eyed monster’ via ‘Slothie’ and have ended up as a ‘Sofa’. I’m not sure I’m moving in the right direction.
We go for dinner at Locatelli’s, and eat the entire bread basket, then pasta, then lamb, then pudding. We drink two bottles of amazing red wine, then eat the truffle, the amaretto and the little jelly cube that comes with the coffee. We have the most fun of anyone in the restaurant, trying to work out which women are hookers and which are just eastern European. There’s a B-list celeb here with a guy I grew up with, and the four of us have more cocktails, and while the B-list is off in the toilet doing coke, my friend gives James and me the low-down on who’s really shagging who in the world of nonentity celebrity.
We hail a cab around midnight and at home collapse on top of his bed. I unbutton my skirt so I can breathe, and untuck his shirt and loosen his belt for the sake of his gut.
‘So. Thirty-four!’ he says. ‘I think you’re now officially a spinster.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Seriously, I might have to call Svetlana, she’s still in her twenties, wrinkle free …’
‘Grim. You’re old enough to be her dad.’
‘First sign of senility: jealousy of beautiful young girls …’
Happy birthday to you, too.
‘James, if we have kids in a few years you’ll hit sixty before they’re even teenagers. At Yasmine Jayde’s eighteenth birthday party, you’ll be the sad randy 70-year-old everyone assumes is the granddad. I’ll probably find you trying to grope her school friends from the confines of your Maserati wheelchair, so don’t give me any grief about my age, you mean old bastard.’
‘Touched a nerve … you never used to be this irritable back when you were young …’
I grab his chin in my hand. ‘Shut up and kiss me you fool, while you still have your own teeth.’
We kiss and smile and kiss. I don’t want to have sex – I’m full of food and booze, but I roll on top of him just to look at how handsome he is.
‘Get off me, you big lump,’ he says.
And while I try in the following days to re-remember his tone as playful or affectionate or the result of me squashing his over-full stomach, the truth is it was none of those.
‘3rd December, what are you doing?’ says James.
‘… next Saturday, seeing you?’
‘Rob and Lena have invited us to a Vicars and Tarts party at The Electric. What are you going to wear?’
‘Christ, I have no idea.’
I think about Rob and Lena. The handful of times we’ve been for drinks with them, the guys have spent the night talking about football and money, while Lena talks about how often she and Rob go to The Four Seasons for mini-breaks, and how once she saw Danielle Lloyd there, wearing the same Cavalli as her.
I imagine their friends will be a bunch of arrogant bankers and underweight girls with fake tits who all aspire to live in Chelsea but actually live in Fulham.
‘I’m going as a raspberry tart. And I think you should come as a pudding so I don’t look like a total idiot on my own,’ I say.
‘What pudding would I be?’ he says.
‘Hmm. A fool’s too obvious. I’d actually say a millefeuille. You have many layers, James. On top, you’re all smooth and quite sweet, then underneath there’s a really soft bit, and then under that you’re hard. And then there’s another bit deeper down that’s soft again. But I think at the bottom, it’s a bit flaky, and at the very base, you’re hard.’
‘I’ll be hard if you go as a proper tart … Go on, Soph – suspenders, rubber dress, no knickers, thigh-high boots. Just once …’
‘Not my style.’
On Saturday night I’m sitting in front of the mirror, putting on my make-up. I can feel James staring at me.
‘One of your eyes is bigger than the other,’ he says.
I have noticed this only recently myself when looking at photos of Laura and me in Argentina. It is truly a microscopic difference, but he has spotted it and seen fit to comment on it. Not in a ‘your flaws make you unique/beautiful to me’ way. Just in a ‘you are not perfect’ way.
‘Cheers for that. Can you pass me my costume?’
He pulls a face and hands over my outfit. I am wearing fantastically sexy black lacy underwear, but I feel like an utter dork in this get-up of cardboard, red polyboard and string.
I can see James looks uncomfortable, and even though I don’t want to cave in and dress like a slapper, I take the outfit off, and put on the tightest, shortest dress I own. I
dig out a vile shiny blue handbag I had when I was fifteen, put some scarlet lipstick on, and my highest, most uncomfortable pointy heels.
‘You look nice,’ he says.
‘I’m still wearing the raspberry,’ I say, putting on the hat that Will at Appletree has sent down for me. It’s a giant raspberry, made of sugar icing baked at a high temperature, so it’s totally solid. Will, bless him, got the chief wedding cake designer to fix it to a little round brown biscuit-looking base made of soft plastic, which has two ribbon holes drilled through, so I can tie the hat on to my head, with a little bow under my chin.
‘The hat’s cute,’ says James. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
The party is awful. It is the only night I have spent with James, other than the night of The Outburst and the night L’Esteeme launched, that I do not enjoy myself.
James is talking to Rob for ages, and I’m stuck with Lena, who makes Amber look like Susan Sontag. All the girlfriends of Rob’s mates are heavily made-up ex-regional beauty queens, and it’s really hard to see where the girl ends and the tart begins. All they talk about is handbags, the gym, and which luxury spas in Asia their boyfriends are taking them to for Christmas.
I notice James staring at one girl who’s standing at the
bar, who reminds me a bit of Noushka. She is tall, long brown hair, very leggy. He points her out to Rob and they smile and Rob punches him in the arm. James catches me staring, and I feel shame burning my face, and head downstairs to the ladies’ room to check my make-up.
When I come back up, James has disappeared, and I can’t see the brunette girl anywhere. I look around the room, then pop down to the bar below and scan for them, feeling my heart begin to race. I check the loo in the restaurant area – she’s not there either. By the time I go back up to the party James is back, whispering to Rob, and a moment later the girl comes back in and I see James looking at her again and quietly smiling. I feel sick.
A floodgate opens in my mind of all the things I’ve been ignoring since we broke up in May: that comment he made about not marrying just anyone. The time on my birthday he called me a big lump. The way he looked at Noushka on the launch night, the way his fingers moved in the car. The way he looked at this girl just now. I am paranoid, I am paranoid, I am paranoid, but I know I’m right.
I go over to him and tell him I don’t feel well and that I’m going home.
I rush down the two flights of stairs, grab my coat from the cloakroom, then stand outside on Portobello Road, trying to find a cab.
A moment later James is standing next to me, grabbing my arm.
‘Are you okay?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘What’s wrong?’ he says, panic in his voice.
I want this man.
I have so much desire for him I don’t know where to put it.
But I can no longer live like this. I can hardly breathe.
‘I don’t think I can do this anymore. I can’t be your girlfriend, James, I just can’t do it.’
He looks lost. Scared. Not in control. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops himself.
‘I don’t understand you, James. You ask me to move in, and then you say these things that make me feel like shit. And I don’t have to be in this relationship, you know, I can leave.’
‘What do you mean?’ he says, shocked.
‘I mean Nick made me feel special and you make me feel totally insecure. I don’t understand. Do you even want me to be your girlfriend?’
He stares at me for what seems like an age. Oh, my life to know what is going on inside that messed up, crazy head of his.
‘No,’ he says finally. I swallow hard and nod. I was right. And I’ve lost. There’s nothing more I can do. He grabs my hand and I try to snatch it back. ‘Sophie …’
‘Don’t patronise me by saying how fond you are of me, or how I deserve better …’
‘Shhh, please,’ he says.
‘… or how great my company is …’
‘Shut up, Sophie Klein. I don’t want you to be my girlfriend.’
‘Yeah I know, you don’t need to say it twice.’
‘SHUT UP, WOMAN! I don’t want you to be my girlfriend. I want you to be my wife.’
I can safely say it was a strange proposal.
There’s something funny about all this, and it has nothing to do with the giant raspberry on my head.
We have been dating almost a year, I am about to move in to this man’s house, he has asked me to be his wife.
The funny thing? He has never once said he loves me.
Nick used to say ‘I love you’ ten times a day. I learnt to understand that this was his shorthand for ‘I’m happy’, ‘Goodnight’, ‘I’m lonely’, ‘I feel weird and I can’t put my finger on why,’ ‘Thanks for making spag bol,’ and ‘Please don’t be angry with me’.
You overuse it and you wear it out.
But isn’t there a happy medium?
That night, I dream that James and I are at a party in Bangkok, in the Bonders’ hotel suite. James is deep in conversation with Roger Federer and Shania Twain, and I’m trying to tell him that the train for Las Vegas leaves in five minutes and we’re going to miss our own wedding, but he just nods and smiles, nods and smiles. Still no giant spiders.
James wants to wait till January before thinking about a ring or a party. The kitchen is days from being finished, my custards are keeping me busy, and he has to fly to Moscow three times between December 4th and the 14th to finalise distribution deals with one of his biggest clients. I’ve barely seen him since he proposed. I went to three Christmas parties without him last week – it almost feels like I’m single again.
There is no one I want to be with more than him. This is it. I have found the person I will grow old with. We are to be married. I am finally safe. So why do I feel like I’m on red alert? I’m waking up at 4am every morning, adrenalin coursing through me. It must be excitement. Must be.
It is now the 15th of December and James and I haven’t worked out our New Year’s Eve plans. I’ve mentioned it twice in the last fortnight and twice James says we’ll discuss it nearer the time. Maybe when you get to his age it ceases
to be a big deal. I don’t like New Year’s Eve at the best of times so I don’t care what we do – see some friends, drink too much, have a laugh somewhere locally.
We’re in his car on the way to his friends Ed and Rachel for dinner.
‘So, New Year’s Eve – shall we go to Laura’s party or do you want to do something else?’ I say, thinking he won’t be able to escape the conversation now, he’s in the car.
‘Oh. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.’ He looks straight ahead and I can see him swallow.
Then why haven’t you? ‘And?’
‘Yeah … Rob’s going to Vegas with the boys for Oliver Newman’s stag do. Or the Bonders have invited me to join them at their villa in the Cayman Islands. What do you think?’ He turns to look at me briefly.
‘What do you mean, “invited you”? Just you?’
‘I haven’t told them we’re engaged yet. So … what do you think?’
I can feel the blood has drained from my face. ‘Er. I think I’d like to see my fiancé on New Year’s Eve?’
‘I didn’t think you could get time off work, all the custard stuff …’
‘You never asked.’
‘I could see how busy you were.’
‘Hang on, Rob’s going to Vegas without Lena?’
‘It’s a stag, Soph.’
‘And the lovely Mal’s going, presumably …’
He nods.
‘So whoring and boozing in Vegas. Or you go to some tropical paradise with a married couple but without me?’
He looks at me helplessly.
‘Can I come
with
you to the Cayman Islands?’ I’m thinking that if the bank holidays fall on the right days, I could just about get five days off, it’s a long flight, sure, but I could just about justify it …
‘If we’re going away together, I’d like us to go to our own private place. We can go away for Valentine’s Day. I’ll only be gone a week, it’s no big deal.’
‘Hang on. When did the Bonders invite you?’
He shrugs.
‘More than a few weeks ago, presumably.’
He nods.
‘At dinner after the launch party?’ When he went out all night with Noushka.
He nods.
‘And Oliver Newman’s stag must have been planned for a while, ’cause Vegas is busy at Christmas and flights get booked up, people going home for the holidays … at least six weeks, I’d say.’
He nods. Christ, I’m getting really good at this game.
‘So, you’ve known about both trips for over a month.’
‘Come on, it’s been a crazy month, the launch, the kitchen, the engagement …’
‘And when you said “I’ve been meaning to talk to you
about New Year’s Eve”, what you actually meant was “you’re going to have to interrogate me with twenty questions before I’ll admit to a grain of the truth”, so in essence you’ve lied to me.’
Suddenly he pulls the car over and puts it in neutral. His face has switched from sheepish grin to righteous indignation. ‘I have not lied!’
‘No, you just haven’t told the truth.’
He is on the verge of being enraged.
‘I didn’t tell you, Soph, because I
knew
you’d be like this.’
‘I AM LIKE THIS
BECAUSE
YOU DIDN’T TELL ME.’
He turns the engine back on and pulls out. ‘Look, we’ll be late for Ed and Rachel. I don’t want to have a row about this in front of them. Can we talk about it later?’