‘What did you mean?’ I said. ‘When you rang the phone-in?’
‘What did I mean? Nothing. I just felt like having my say.’
‘No, I mean, what did you mean when you said we should all “tell each other the truth”?’
‘Well …’ he exhaled and fiddled with his fork. ‘I …’ He paused while the waiter put our pizzas on the table.
‘Tell me,’ I said again. I poured us both some more wine.
‘Well, we’d all hurt each other less if we told each other the truth. That’s what I meant,’ he explained. ‘You see, my ex, Lucy, she didn’t tell me the truth. And I really wish she had, because I wouldn’t have got so involved.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he replied flatly. ‘We’re having a nice time, Minty.’
‘But you know all about me,’ I pointed out with a tipsy sigh. ‘Why can’t I know something about you?’
‘OK then,’ he said wearily. ‘I met Lucy two years ago. She was separated from her husband. He’d been having an affair. Her marriage was over. That’s what she told me, and I fell for her hook, line and sinker. I was absolutely besotted. She’d been on her own for almost a year and told me she’d be divorced by the following spring. So we got more and more involved, and I proposed and she said yes. I was just so incredibly happy.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘She went back to her husband. His affair ended unexpectedly and he said he wanted her back. So back she went, despite the fact that she’d assured me that she never, ever would. But it wasn’t true. The truth was that she still loved him and hoped to be reconciled. And if I’d known that from the start, I’d never have got as involved with her as I did. She really …hurt me,’ he said. ‘She didn’t mean to,’ he added
quickly. ‘But she did. There,’ he concluded with a shrug. ‘Now you know.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s history.’
‘Does it still hurt?’
‘Sometimes. Not so much. I’ve recovered, really. Just as you’ll recover from Dominic one day.’
‘Oh, I’m getting over him already,’ I said airily as I sliced into my pizza. ‘He wasn’t a very nice person, so that makes it easier.’
‘Why on earth did you want to marry him then?’ said Joe with an expression of surprise.
And I hate questions like that so I said, ‘I suppose I was confused.’ By now the bottle of wine was empty – I’d drunk most of it, and my head had done several lengths. But I was starting to enjoy myself. Joe had never looked more attractive, I thought, even if he didn’t wear good clothes like Dom. He had lovely, curving lips, I noticed now, and a broad physique. And the fact that he wasn’t seeing Helen freed me to feel something dangerously like desire.
‘Let’s have another drink,’ I said with a drunken giggle.
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough. I think you have too.’
‘No I haven’t,’ I retorted. ‘I haven’t had nearly enough. Now, where do you live?’ I added boldly.
‘Round the corner,’ he replied.
‘That’s convenient!’ I said with a throaty laugh.
‘Convenient for what?’ he shot back with a slightly discomfited air.
‘Convenient for you!’ I said. I leant across the table, and fixed him with a seductive stare. ‘Take me back to your place,’ I breathed.
‘Minty, would you stop flirting with me,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s rather tiring.’
‘Why shouldn’t I flirt with you?’ I flung back. ‘I
like
flirting with you. You’re nice. You should be flattered that I’m flirting with you. I don’t just flirt with anyone. Like some flighty …
flibbertigibbet. Take me back to your place,’ I whispered again.
‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘I
will
take you back to my place and I’ll –’
‘– rip my clothes off?!’ I suggested gaily.
‘Make you some strong coffee,’ he corrected me crisply. ‘And then I’ll call you a cab.’
‘I’ve been called worse things than that!’ I said with a guffaw. I really was being
so
amusing! So we ambled out into the misty night, and I tucked my hand under Joe’s arm. And despite his affected nonchalance, I could feel the rapid beat of his heart. We turned right into Albert Street, and stopped outside an elegant white terraced house. A wisteria had coiled and wreathed itself through the wrought-iron railings. I traced its twists and turns with my index finger as Joe groped for his keys. Then we descended the steps to the basement and he unlocked the door. Here I was, in Joe’s place. I’d sometimes wondered what it was like. And now I knew. It was …small.
Very
small. I thought, with a pang, of Dominic’s spacious house in Clapham. And Dominic’s house was always incredibly tidy, but Joe’s flat was a tip. Books were stacked up everywhere, like stalagmites; the carpet needed a clean. The double-glazed windows were grimed with dust, and a pile of laundry lurked in one corner. It was sobering – literally – to see the gulf between Dominic’s elegant lifestyle and Joe’s. I felt my desire subside in a cold shower of sharp reality.
‘Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,’ I heard Joe say as he clattered about in the tiny kitchen.
‘You’re right!’ I called out. ‘It’s disgusting!’
‘Minty!’ said Joe, reappearing. ‘That wasn’t very nice.’ Then he laughed and shook his head. ‘You and your insults,’ he said with an admonitory wag of his finger.
‘Oh. Yes. That’s right,’ I said, backtracking madly. ‘When I said “disgusting”, what I really meant was – creatively chaotic.’
‘Still, at least I’ve got some decent coffee,’ he shouted above the buzz of the grinder. And soon we were sitting side by side on a battered old sofa which, I couldn’t help noticing, did
not
co-ordinate successfully with the décor. And by now,
depressed by my surroundings and by Joe’s evident poverty compared to Dom, I had stopped flirting and was struck, instead, with a kind of awkward diffidence. This was a mistake. I’d nearly got carried away. I would get a cab, and go home.
‘Thanks for supper,’ I said quietly as I sipped my coffee out of a rather chipped mug. I gave him a sideways smile. ‘Sorry I was being such a pain.’
‘You weren’t,’ he said gallantly. ‘You were being funny.’
‘I was being an idiot – I drank too much.’
‘You were a bit …overpowering.’
‘I know,’ I agreed, guiltily. ‘Flirting like that. I ask you!
Ridiculous
,’ I added with a soft laugh. ‘It’s because of all my stress.’
‘So you didn’t mean what you said?’
‘What did I say?’
‘You invited me to rip your clothes off. That was a joke, I assume.’
‘Er …yes,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’
Oh. I experienced a stab of disappointment.
‘You won’t?’ I reiterated, quietly.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Oh.’ I looked at him. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be right, would it?’
‘Wouldn’t it?’ I said shyly.
‘No. Because you’re on the rebound. I told you that before.’
‘I’m not on the rebound any more,’ I pointed out. ‘Frankly, Dominic’s old news. He no longer makes the headlines for me!’
‘Can I tell you something?’ said Joe seriously. He turned towards me, and I took in his lovely mouth and his strong, lightly stubbled jaw, and his large, hazel eyes which seemed to gaze into me with a lighthouse intensity. ‘Can I tell you something?’ he repeated.
‘Anything you like,’ I said softly.
‘I like you, Minty.’ He sighed. ‘In fact, I like you an awful
lot. But I’m not going to be someone’s comfort blanket ever again.’
‘Look, I
am
over Dominic,’ I repeated. ‘I know you think I’m not, but I am. I mean, Dominic was not nice. Very. But you
are
nice,’ I said with what I hoped was a beguiling smile. And now I didn’t want to go home after all. I wanted to stay here with Joe. He looked so strong, and his aftershave smelt so nice. It wasn’t Chanel, like Dom’s. But it was lovely. Clean and fresh, with the scent of lime. I had an overwhelming urge to snuggle up to him and sniff his neck. And now I wanted him to put his arms round me and hold me. Just hold on to me. That’s all he had to do. So I took his hand in mine, realising, as I did so, that I hadn’t held a man’s hand for months. Joe was single and sexy and kind. Joe was here. With me. So I did something daring. I held his hand to my lips and kissed it, once. But he didn’t react. So I stood up.
‘Well, I’d better be getting back,’ I said. ‘Let’s call that cab.’ But Joe didn’t reach for the phone. He sat there staring at me. Just staring. But I knew I’d pushed things far enough. So I went over to the phone and started dialling. And suddenly Joe’s hand was on mine, and the receiver went back down.
‘Oh, Minty,’ he said, as his lips found my own. ‘Oh, Minty.’ Then his hands were cupping my face, and now they were unbuttoning my shirt, and he was leading me down a narrow corridor to the back of his flat. And within a minute we were naked, and moving together, in the silence of his darkened room.
‘Oh, Minty,’ he kept saying. Just like that. ‘Oh, Minty.’ Over and over again. This was wonderful. I needed this. I needed him. He was so …
good.
‘Oh, Minty,’ he said again.
‘Oh,
Dominic
,’ I sighed.
‘
WHAT
?’ Joe was out of that bed like a sprinter out of the blocks, and the room was flooded with light. I sat bolt upright, clutching the sheet.
‘What did you just call me?’ said Joe. His face was thunderous.
‘I didn’t call you anything,’ I said.
‘Yes, you did. You called me Dominic.’
‘I did not.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Did not.’
‘
Did
!’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’
God how
awful.
‘Oh. Well …sorry,’ I said, beginning to panic. ‘I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t. Look, I’m sorry. I’m really very sorry. Please, Joe, don’t be cross.’ But it was too late. He was clambering into his boxer shorts and had pulled his jumper over his head.
‘I
told
you!’ he went on as he stormed out into the sitting room. ‘I told you, you’ve got too much baggage. You’ve got tons of it – your trolley’s stacked up high.’ He grabbed the phone and started dialling. ‘Oh, Easicabs? A passenger for Princess Road, please, from 160 Albert Street. Basement flat. Of course you’re not ready,’ he reiterated, as he came back into the bedroom and pulled on his jeans. ‘You’re still obsessed with that bastard. Well –
be
obsessed with him. That’s absolutely fine. But don’t get involved with me.’
I was very shaken by my encounter with Joe. In fact, I felt terrible because I knew I’d really fouled up. Just when I was getting close to him. Just when I realised how much I liked him, and just when I
needed
him, too, given the disappointment I’d had at work. And he was wrong to say I wasn’t getting over Dominic. I was. It was a simple mistake, that’s all. The kind of mistake anyone can make. A momentary lapse. But I regretted it with all my heart. I picked up his book, lying on the bedside table in the spare room which
I
, and not Amber, now occupied. I turned to the inside back page, looked at his photo and was filled with remorse once more. I’d phoned him the next day, horribly hungover and very anxious, but his answerphone was on. So I’d left him a message, but he hadn’t rung me back. I was upset about this, and was going to call him again, but then I decided not to. I knew I was in a hole, and that I should stop digging, and that in due course, he might come round. But ever since it happened, I’ve been feeling miserable, and jumpy – in stark contrast to Amber, who has discovered an inner calm. For if I’ve just taken a huge step back, she appears to have taken three strides forwards.
‘I feel really tranquil,’ she said this morning, as we walked round the Camden branch of Sainsbury’s. ‘I really don’t know why, but for the first time since Charlie dumped me, I feel relaxed and positive, glowing with an inner wellbeing.’
‘Lucky you,’ I said ruefully. I’d decided not to tell her about my catastrophic encounter with Joe.
She grabbed a ticket at the delicatessen counter. ‘I feel like
my old self, Minty. Like my
best
self. I feel ready to face the world. The book’s going really well now that I’ve swapped rooms with you. I’m
brimming
with creativity and optimism, I really feel –’
‘NUMBER FORTY-THREE!’
‘Oh, that’s us. Half a pound of feta, please. Yes, I feel so
happy
, Minty, so fulfilled now, so …’
‘Sorry, we’ve run out of feta,’ said the woman on the Deli counter. ‘How about a nice bit of smoked mozzarella instead?’
‘Smoked mozzarella?’ Amber gave her a frigid stare. She looked as though the woman had just offered her a ‘nice bit of smoked parrot’.
‘Yeah,’ the woman reiterated, ‘smoked mozzarella – £8.42 a kilo.’
‘But I don’t
want
smoked mozzarella,’ said Amber. And her lower lip began to tremble with incipient rage.
Oh, for God’s sake, I thought, it’s not worth making a fuss about. It’s just cheese, isn’t it?
‘It’s OK. We’ll take the smoked mozzarella,’ I said to the woman, trying to assert myself in reasonable, non-aggressive, Nice Factor fashion.
‘No, we bloody well
won’t
!’ Amber spat.
‘Why on earth not?’ I said. ‘It’s nice.’
‘Minty, I don’t know how you could be so insensitive!’ she hissed, and her eyes began to fill. What on earth was going on?
‘Amber,’ I said quietly, out of earshot of the delicatessen counter, ‘what, please, is the problem?’
‘The problem is, Minty …’ she began. By now tears were streaming down her face. ‘The problem
is
,’ she tried again, then sobbed. ‘The problem is – uh uh – that smoked mozzarella was Charlie’s
favourite cheese
!’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘And now I’ve been reminded of him. And it’s like a knife in my heart. And that annoying woman was trying to force me to have smoked mozzarella when I had deliberately asked for Feta, and then you not even understanding –’
‘I didn’t know!’ I exclaimed.
‘Well, you know me better than anyone else,’ she wept. ‘So you
should
have known that Charlie always preferred mozzarella to feta in salads. And not just
any
mozzarella,’ she added, almost hysterical by now. ‘Not that squishy, watery, yukky, rubbery stuff in little plastic bags. No!
Smoked
! It had to be smoked!!
Now
do you understand, Minty? Now have I got through to you?’
‘Isn’t this a bit over the top?’ I said, as Amber took off furiously with our trolley. ‘All you had to say was, “No thanks. I’ll have the Edam.”’
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ she wailed as she hurtled down the aisle towards Preserves. ‘What you don’t realise,’ she said, stopping to grab a tin of pineapple chunks off the shelf, ‘is that it takes a very long time to get over someone. In fact, it takes ages,’ she sobbed as she set off again. ‘
Ages
!’ Oh God, everyone was staring. ‘And I’m not over Charlie yet,’ Amber blubbed as she sped past Hot Beverages. ‘It’s a very long process, Minty. I’ve got to mourn.’
‘I know,’ I acknowledged irritably.
‘But you don’t understand that!’
‘I think I do,’ I retorted, as we turned right into Chilled Foods. ‘You seem to forget what I’ve been through myself with Dominic.’
‘Oh, I know,’ she acknowledged irritably. ‘But you’re getting over it quicker than me, because you’re a happy, simple, sort of person.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
‘It’s true, Minty,’ she said, as she scrutinised the Dairy Spreads. ‘Let’s face it, you’re Apollonian, you’re light and bright.
“Un Coeur Simple,”
as Flaubert might have said. But I’m Dionysian: dark, creative, and yet destructive’ – she grabbed a carton of plain yoghurt – ‘I
feel
things more than you.’
‘You have no IDEA what I feel!’ I flung back, outraged.
‘Yes I do!’
‘No you don’t.’
‘Oh
yes
I do,’ she said.
‘Oh no –’ I stopped myself. People were staring. ‘You
don’t
,’ I said with quiet emphasis. ‘Because you never ask.’
‘Well, why don’t you tell me?’
‘Because – haven’t you noticed? – I don’t tell
anyone.
’
‘Well why not?’
‘Because a) I don’t want to and b) it’s very boring for other people.’
‘Minty!’
‘But you!’ I hissed. ‘You talk about nothing else. You parade your feelings – your
oh-so-fine
feelings – for everyone to see.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Yes you bloody well do. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and your guts. You’re like one of those silly buildings by Richard Rogers. Your insides are on your outside!’
‘Minty!’ Amber’s huge green eyes were goggling. ‘I really don’t know what’s got into you lately – that wasn’t very
nice
!’
‘Good!’ I said. ‘I don’t
want
to be nice. I’ve
had it
with being nice. Why do you think I did that
course
? Being nice gets me nowhere,’ I went on fiercely, as I reached for a packet of ginger snaps. ‘Being nice means I get dumped on my wedding day! Being nice means doing everyone else’s work! Being nice means I always come second. No, not even second.
Last
! Being nice,’ I hissed, ‘means giving up my own bloody BEDROOM!’
‘Well, yes, that
was
nice of you, Minty,’ Amber conceded, aware now that we were an object of considerable curiosity. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, as we passed Crackers and Crispbreads, ‘the point
is
…I still love Charlie. And I want him back!’
‘WHAT?’ Now she had
really
lost the plot.
‘I want him back,’ she repeated carefully. ‘And I’m going to get him back. In fact,’ she went on, with quiet menace, ‘I’m going to make him come
crawling
back.’
‘Amber,’ I said, ‘do you see those women sitting at the check-out?’
‘Yes,’ she said cautiously.
‘You have bored them all, every single one, once a week for the past five months, about what a “bastard” Charlie was
to you. And do you see that man stacking shelves over there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve done the same to him, ditto. And to that bloke, over there, in Household Accessories. And you’ve shopped Charlie to every single person walking their dog on Primrose Hill. And you’ve graffitied abuse about him on the walls of at least six underground stations – maybe more.’
‘Oh, so what?’ she said, crossly.
‘Aren’t you afraid of looking a little …hypocritical here?’
‘Not really,’ she said.
‘And do you know why our post is now arriving an hour and a half earlier than normal?’ I enquired.
‘No,’ she said with a sniff.
‘Because the postman is sick of you hijacking him every morning and bending his ear about Charlie. He’s changed his shift so that he now delivers our mail before you’re up.’
‘Oh.’
‘And have you forgotten the number of times you’ve called the phone-ins at London FM?’
‘Oh, well …that …’
‘Amber, you have slagged off Charlie to a minimum of five million people across London. The only thing you haven’t done is to berate him from a soapbox on Speakers’ Corner. And now you say you want him back?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’
‘WHY? Why do you want him back?’
‘Because …because …I haven’t got over him.’
‘Well, he’s got over you!’
‘That’s not true!’ she exclaimed. ‘He probably wants me just as much as I want him.’
‘Amber, if he did, he’d have asked you. But he hasn’t. Get
real
, you idiot! Get a LIFE!’
Yup, I think the Nice Factor’s definitely starting to work now, I thought to myself, as Amber and I made our way back to the flat. They said it would take a while to kick in, and they were right. I’d stuck it up Melinda. And I’d enjoyed an uncharacteristically frank exchange with Amber. She was still
snivelling as I opened the front door. But at least she could see my point of view.
‘OK, OK, so I may have been a little …hard on him,’ she acknowledged as we unpacked the shopping. She went over to her dartboard, and took down the heavily punctured photo of Charlie. ‘But that’s only because I was so
upset.
Because I love him
so
much. But I do want the bastard back, Minty …’
‘I say!’ screeched Pedro. And then he laughed.
‘ …and I’ve thought of a way to do it. But I’ll need your help,’ she added.
She needed my help??
‘NO!’ I said. There, I’d said it. And I was sticking to it. ‘NO,’ I said again.
‘Pleeeease, Minteeeeee,’ she whined.
‘No. Absolutely not. No way.’
‘Oh, go on.’
‘
Nein. Non.
Negative.’
‘You see, I’ve got this brilliant plan …’
‘
Niet. Ochi. Nej.
’
‘Let me tell you about it …’
‘NonononononononoNO!’
‘I want to go to the Anti-Slavery International Gala Ball,’ she said. Oh.
‘That charity do you went to with Charlie last year?’
‘Yes. His father’s on the board, so I know that Charlie will be there too. He always goes. It’s in ten days. At the Savoy. Will you come with me, Minty? Please.
Please.
’
Oh
God.
Oh God.
‘
N-o
,’ I said.
‘Go on.’
‘No. No.
No.
’
‘Ple-ea-ea-ea-ease,’ she bleated.
‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘It
is
a good idea,’ she said.
‘Look, if you want him back, why don’t you just ring him up?’
‘Well, because it wouldn’t work. But if he
saw
me,’ she said,
suddenly brightening, ‘wearing some
fantastic
ballgown, then it might.’
‘Look, I …’
‘Please, Minty,’ she said. She put her arm round me. ‘I’m sorry I was beastly. I really am. But I need your support.’ Damn. I’m a pushover when people apologise. However horrid they were before.
‘Please,’ she implored me again.
‘Oh …oh …
all right
,’ I said, crossly. ‘But we don’t have partners,’ I pointed out. However much I wanted to, I could hardly invite Joe. ‘Who on earth could we go with?’ I said.
‘Ah. I’ve thought of that,’ she replied.
When Amber said that she wanted us to hire men for the evening from a new escort agency called Boys’R’Us, I nearly backed out of the whole thing.
‘It sounds absolutely hideous!’ I said.
‘No, it’s not. It’s very sensible,’ Amber insisted. ‘It’s a new agency which enables successful independent women like you and me to hire a bloke for the evening. Everyone does it in the States.’
‘But it sounds appalling,’ I said. ‘Hiring men?’
‘No,’ said Amber. ‘We’re not “hiring men”. That makes it sound sordid. We’re engaging the services of a walker. And a walker is the ultimate accessory for the successful single woman. Choosing him should be as simple as selecting a frock off a rack …’
‘ …I think you need someone who’s entertaining and a bit trendy, Amber,’ said Shirley Birley, the woman who ran Boys’R’Us. ‘Vivienne Westwood, I’d say, rather than Norman Hartnell.’ We were sitting in her tiny office in Oxford Street three days later. I’d rushed up there in my lunch hour.
‘How many men have you got for us to choose from?’ I enquired.
‘Three hundred,’ she replied. Mmm, not bad. I thought again of Joe. But I couldn’t invite him. It was just too awkward. Amber was flicking through Shirley Birley’s bulging files.
‘Now,
he’s
good-looking,’ she said, as she gazed at a photo of a dark-haired man called Dustin.
‘He’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Shirley agreed. ‘He’s a model. But the problem with him,’ she added judiciously, ‘is that he’s stupendously boring.’
‘Oh,’ said Amber. ‘Well, I don’t want that. I mean, why would I pay £200 for a man to bore me, when I already know several men who’d do it free of charge? What about this one?’
‘Oh, that’s Jez,’ said Shirley. I craned to look at the photo of a pleasant-looking man in a sports car. ‘He’s currently studying to be a hypnotherapist and amateur mystic,’ Shirley explained. ‘But I think his adenoidal voice would get you down.’
‘Hhmmmm,’ Amber said, thoughtfully. ‘Him!’ she said excitedly. ‘
That
one!’ She scanned his profile. ‘He fits the bill.’
‘Yes,’ said Shirley, with a funny little smile. ‘That’s Laurie. Yes …I think he’ll do very nicely for you.’
Laurie was six foot two – he had to be tall, of course, for Amber – with dark brown hair and blue eyes, and he was thirty-six. I decided to go for someone slightly older. Someone with a bit of
savoir-faire
, who might be able to talk about opera, theatre and art. If I had to go through with this, then I was determined to have a reasonably entertaining man on my arm. My walker was called Hugo and he was forty-two. He looked as though he knew how to dress and he claimed to have a ‘lively interest in the performing arts’.