The Venus Trap (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two
Day 3

I
haven’t heard the home phone ring all day, or the doorbell. Eileen hasn’t checked to see why I didn’t show up for my
appointment
—well, maybe she phoned, but she hasn’t come round. I suppose why would she? She probably thinks I forgot. Stephanie hasn’t come, and neither has Donna. This is how old people die alone in their houses. Minus the lunatic obsessed kidnapper.

For the past couple of hours I have been teetering on the precipice of hysteria, that feeling that something could set me off at any moment and I would either laugh myself into a heap or howl uncontrollably.

I’ve not had much of a sense of humour in the last couple of years. Although I think a lot of people forget, or lose the ability, to laugh daily once they’re well into adulthood. My Eighties diary is full of stories about Donna and me laughing until our bellies ached and tears streamed down our cheeks, collapsing on one another’s shoulders with merriment. But I only remember doing it before the end of that year. We’ve laughed since, of course, but not like that.

Surely
Donna will come! She knows I’m never away from my phone for long. She would come and ring the doorbell, I know she would. My phone will be full of increasingly puzzled and concerned messages.

Although our friendship seems to have waned a bit since
Richard
and I split up. That kind of hurts, if I’m honest—when I need her more than ever, she backs off? I know she’s busy with Henry and the twins, and Henry and Richard are friends—but she and I have been friends since we were fourteen.

We’re still managing to go swimming once a week, though. On a Thursday—so when’s that? Two days’ time? I’m starting to lose track. No—three. It’s Monday today, Eileen day. Whenever a radio announcer mentions the day or the date, I scratch it—literally scratch, with my fingernail, because Claudio took the pens—in a notebook I found in my room, because I can see it all getting hazier by the hour. The notebook is one of Megan’s, with pink unicorns on the front and a few scribbles of hers on the first few pages.

We swim at the old pool in Brockhurst, the one we used to train at when we were kids. I prefer the more modern pool at the gym—the changing rooms at the old baths are so scummy, you think you’ll catch a verruca the minute you set foot on the slimy, hair-swirled tiles, and there’s always bits of detritus lurking in the bottom of the lockers, sweet wrappers and used tissues and, if you’re really unlucky, somebody’s forgotten dirty knickers—but I can’t go to the one at the gym any more in case I bump into Sean.

Donna never even got to meet him properly. She was always asking to, but I have to admit I felt a bit embarrassed, when
Richard
and I were such good friends with her and Henry. I told her that it was too soon and too weird for them to see me with someone new. It was true—but if I’m honest I think the real reason was because I was a bit embarrassed to be seen with him. I thought he would compare unfavourably to Richard, who is the perfect dinner guest, despite his working-class origins. Richard knows about wine, and the correct way to eat asparagus or oysters, and any other tricky matters of dining etiquette—you could take him anywhere. Whereas I could see that Donna would think Sean was great eye-candy for a night out on the town but a bit of a social liability in any restaurant more classy than the local Indian. In fact, the local Indian is called the Viceroy, and Sean once referred to it as the Vicky-Roy.

Donna did see him, just once—I sneaked her up to the gym and surreptitiously pointed him out when she’d brought the twins for their tae kwon do class in the dance studio. I was a bit disappointed that she didn’t seem to share my views on how gorgeous he is—I suppose it was a bit unfortunate that we caught him sort of preening in front of the big mirrors by the free weights. All she said was, ‘Bet he has those massive tubs of protein powder in his kitchen cupboards.’ She can be a bit of a snob, can Donna.

It was pretty obvious that she believed my relationship with Sean was pure rebound, a reaction to what I perceived as being wrong with Richard. She thinks I ditched the small, skinny intellectual platonic friend-husband for the huge, muscly passionate meat-head lover.

I suppose she’d be right.

Wait—Donna knows about Claudio too! I’ve just remembered: we talked about him last time we went swimming—she asked if I’d been on any more dates lately. She specifically asked about Claudio! And when I smiled secretively, she got all excited.

‘
What
? You have? You’re in love with Claudio? Come on, spill the beans!’ She ruffled up the water around us with exaggerated enthusiasm and it reminded me of her fifteen-year-old self. I laughed and told her to calm down, that we were going on another date but I wasn’t exactly crazy about him, I was just seeing how it went. Then we got on to the subject of internet dating.

‘The whole dating thing makes me laugh,’ I said. ‘It’s fun. I like meeting new people. I like the attention, and the anticipation, and the whole rigmarole of getting ready to go out on a date and all the different sorts of characters you meet. I need fun in my life. Do you remember that song that went
There’s an army of lovers/Just waiting to meet you
? That’s what it feels like—internet dating anyway. That, or online grocery shopping: browse the products, click on the ones you like, add them to your basket, proceed to checkout . . .’

I don’t feel like that any more.

‘You do need some fun,’ Donna agreed, laughing too. ‘Henry thinks you’re mad to do internet dating, you know. He’s convinced the websites are bulging with married men looking for a bit on the side, and white slave traffickers or, at the very least, ruthless sex maniacs preying on vulnerable single women . . .’

‘Well, the only really bad experience I’ve had so far was with that nutter Gerald—you know, the one who told me I was a stuck-up whore of Babylon. But he was the exception—I hope. It’s not like that any more. Everyone does it these days,’ I said.

I always thought Henry was such a square, but I don’t any more. I think he’s totally sensible.

Donna continued, ‘I know. I didn’t tell Henry about the Whore of Babylon guy, or the wine-bottle poo guy—although you have to admit, they’re great stories. And you met Claudio on the Babylon date, so it can’t all be bad. I reckon those tales of doom and gloom about internet dating are like the story about swans being able to break a man’s arm. Is that truth, or urban myth? Because nobody’s ever actually met anybody who’s had their arm broken by a swan, have they? I told Henry that, too. It’s generally assumed to be a dubious and potentially dangerous activity, but whoever heard of anybody who’s been imperilled by someone they’ve been on a blind date with? If you’re careful, and don’t do anything silly like inviting them round to yours for the first date, or agreeing to go on a long walk in a remote part of the countryside, with a man who brings black bin-liners, rope, and a large curved knife “just in case . . .” And you’re always so careful. You never even walk anywhere on your own after dark!’

Those words come back to me now like a kick in the teeth. I hadn’t ever invited Claudio in and I’d known him since I was sixteen: he wasn’t just ‘some guy off the internet’. But I didn’t like him then, so why didn’t I just listen to my instincts?

Donna knows about Claudio. She’ll come, I know she will. She has to.

But what if she doesn’t? She thinks I like him. She’s glad I’ve met someone new. I even rang her up, far too late at night, after my second date with him.

Date number two with Claudio was in Kingston, halfway between our two homes. We ate soft, salty focaccia dipped in olive oil at
Carluccio’s
, where he then impressed me by ordering our main courses in fluent Italian. Unfortunately the waitress was obviously from New Malden or Surbiton or somewhere, and had not the faintest clue what he was saying, which was a bit of a shame. But it worked for me.

‘You’re a dark horse. I didn’t know you could speak the language,’ I said admiringly.

‘The language of love,’ he replied, making a corny face at me. ‘I have my mother to thank for that—she insisted I grew up
bilingual
.’

‘How is your mother?’ I asked. Claudio’s lip wobbled slightly, and my heart went out to him.

‘Not good,’ he said, after a pause. ‘I offered to move back down to Brockhurst to be nearer her, but she wouldn’t let me. She prefers it this way. She is very independent. But I visit her every week.’ It’s the most he’s ever said about her.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I put my hand sympathetically on top of his and gave it a squeeze. He managed a brave little smile, like a small boy who’s fallen off his bike. He gazed at a shelf full of packets of dried pasta and exotic oils, tears welling.

‘I will miss her very much when she’s gone.’

‘Yes. It’s so tough. But I’m sure she’s really happy that you’re there for her, and seeing so much of her.’

He turned his hand over and grasped mine, and for the first time I was able to fully forget the Claudio I had disliked as a
teenager
.

‘But now I’ve got you, Jo, and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.’

I smiled, half-pleased, half-doubtful. Claudio reckoned he ‘had me’, after one-and-a-half dates? But I liked his positivity about us.

Or at least that’s what I thought then.

He passed the second date test with flying colours, where you decide whether you like someone more or less than on the first date. It can so often go either way. There was something so vulnerable about him, which came out more strongly the more I talked to him; a certain strange reserve that made me think that he’d been hurt before. When I mentioned anything about previous relationships, a hooded expression came over his face and he looked depressed, almost agitated. I supposed it must be because of the woman who dumped him at the altar. Poor Claudio, I thought—it must have been bad. I was sure he’d tell me about it, in good time.

Frankly, I was just so delighted to be on a date with someone who wasn’t wearing a single item of comedy clothing—no Homer Simpson tie, or Mickey Mouse waistcoat, or even Arsenal socks, all a massive turn-off—and to whom I felt more and more drawn as the evening progressed. I liked the fact that he had the kind of
context
that my other internet dates lacked: having known him as a kid meant that I trusted him a good deal more than I would
normally
be predisposed to.