All the Hopeful Lovers (7 page)

Tom has now been made aware that his attentions to Meg have not gone unnoticed. What do you expect in a place this size? A staff of a hundred and twenty or so, everyone knows everything. They’ll be joking about it, maybe expressing surprise, Meg isn’t an obvious candidate for seduction in her sober business suit and her sober business face. Not exactly a beauty, they’ll be saying. Nothing to write home about. And there’s the wonder of it. Beauty turns out not to create desire after all. Desire creates beauty.

These things take you by surprise. He has almost no memory of Meg in the first weeks after her arrival. Once she stopped him on the corridor to tell him that she needed case histories to feed to journalists, how rhinoplasty saved my life and so forth. But he paid her no attention until the BAAPS conference in London.

They found themselves in a lift together, in the Waldorf Hilton. It was the end of the last session, they were both tired. He noticed that her hands were shaking. They made polite conversation. Then she closed her eyes. No more than the kind of thing you do if your eyes are hurting at the end of the day. She was telling him how much she was learning, her lips moving, her eyes closed, and he studied her face, and there were her hands, shaking. Then she opened her eyes and met his gaze without her defences in place, and he saw it as naked as a kiss: she desires me.

The lift doors opened. They went their separate ways. But from that moment on he looked at her differently. She changed under his eyes. She became beautiful.

So in a little while, in about an hour and a quarter, he’ll pull in to one of the parking spaces reserved for residents of the Victorian mansion called Ridgewood Grange. There, in a two-bedroom flat with views of the communally-maintained park, Meg will be waiting.

Chloe has to run, dragging her wheeled suitcase with the worn wheels that bang like a machine-gun, and only just gets onto the train before the doors close for departure. She left masses of time to get from Paddington to Victoria but of course no Circle line train came for ever. Now she feels hot and cross and the train is full.

She jerks her suitcase down the aisle through four carriages to get into the half that will go on to Lewes after the train divides at Haywards Heath. The only empty seat is a foursome occupied by a fat young mother and two fat young children. The children are sprawled on the seats in such a way that there’s no room for a fourth.

Chloe stands her suitcase in the aisle beside them and says as sweetly as she can, ‘Any chance of a seat?’

‘Move, Wayne,’ says the mother. ‘Out of the way, Jordan.’

The children don’t move.

Chloe waits, smiling, wanting to smack their fat bored faces. Their mother goes red, raises one hand, and screams.

‘
Move
or I belt you one!’

The children move, slowly, sulkily. Chloe sits down. The small fat boy starts to whine.

‘Mu-um. I’m hungry.’

‘No you’re not. You had chips.’

‘But I’m hungry.’

‘Me too,’ says the girl. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Not now,’ says their mother. ‘Later.’

‘But I’m
hungry
,’ says the boy. ‘My tummy hurts.’

‘And mine,’ says the girl. ‘My tummy hurts.’

‘Will you be
quiet
!’ shrieks the mother. ‘I said
no
!’

Both children begin to cry. ‘Jesus God!’ says the mother.

She stares at the children as if she hates them. Undeterred they maintain their steady snivelling. Chloe hates them too. She puts her iPod earpieces into her ears but she can hear the children crying over the beat of the music. People on trains complain when iPods have their volume turned up too high. How about children with their volume turned up too high?

Outside the train window darkness has fallen, and it’s not yet half past four. Short days, long nights. Chloe hates winter. She sees herself reflected in the carriage window, and unthinkingly adjusts her lips to a slight pout, a
moue
her mother calls it, and passes a hand through her blonde hair. She’s wearing her hair partly pinned at the back to make it fluff out on top, the bed-head look. She’s an extremely pretty girl, in a style that’s no longer fashionable, pink cheeks and blue eyes, petite and curvy, reassuringly feminine. Not looking her best right now, she needs at least forty-eight hours sleep, the end of term has been murder. To her expert eye her skin lacks lustre, her hair is drooping. Also she’s just started her period. She wants to be home where she can shut herself in her room and have no one bother her.

The fat mother cracks. She pulls out a bag of Celebrations and lays it on the table between the fat children. The children stop whining and fall to an absorbed concentration of the choice before them. Mini-Mars Bars, mini-Snickers, mini-Bounties, mini-Milky Ways. Then they begin to eat. Steadily, crackling the wrappers, they suck and chew their way through Celebration after Celebration. The fat mother produces a bag of smoky bacon crinkle-cut crisps for herself. Chloe is no stranger to junk food herself, but this is a horror show. This mother is murdering her children.

Her phone pings. A text from Hal.

Sorry sorry sorry

Now he’s sorry. What happened to ‘You fucking slut I hope you die’? It’s not as if she didn’t tell him. It’s not as if she didn’t feel bad. He’s the one chose to turn it into the biggest betrayal in history. Everyone cheats from time to time, boys most of all. What matters is what you do afterwards. So she had a fling with Robbie, these things happen, it didn’t mean anything, and she told Hal right away. He was cool about it, she cried as she was telling him, he held her in his arms, he said, ‘Hey, no big deal.’ And then that same evening, that very same evening, he goes crazy. Talk about Jekyll and Hyde. You fucking slut, you make me sick, I hope you die, and all the rest.

Robbie is a bit of a twat to be honest, one tab of E and he thinks he can fuck for England. ‘You want more? You want more?’ No more, thank you, Robbie. If I start moaning now will you get the fuck on with it and come so I can get some sleep? Oh-Oh-Oh! No one’s made me come like that before! You’re the one! Whoop-de-doo.

Now Robbie’s following me round like a sodding puppy. What is it with boys? You go for them because they’re mean and dangerous and next thing they’re all over you like a wet duvet. The fun all happens at the beginning, when they’re not sure if they want you, and you say to yourself, I’m going to make that boy crazy about me. But then it happens and you’re screwed. Like every way. Who wants a boyfriend for life when you’re nineteen? Can’t I just have one for Christmas? That way I can throw him away on Boxing Day when I’m bored with him.

Chloe giggles to herself. I’m such a cow. But why not? Why does everyone get so stressy like I’ve married them or something? It wasn’t my idea to break up with Hal. I didn’t have to tell him about Robbie. It’s not like I did it to hurt him. What difference does it make anyway? Seriously. I’m not Hal’s wife. He doesn’t own me. It’s not like Robbie’s stolen something from him. It’s only sex, for fuck’s sake.

So he dumped me and now he’s sorry and what am I supposed to do?

She texts back:
Me too. Call later
.

Hal’s sweet really. She remembers how crazy she was about him in the first week of term, with his long curly hair and his bobble hat and his acoustic guitar. Back then she felt almost shy with him because she had rich parents and had been to private school and he was out of this ultra-hard estate in Cardiff. She was soft and southern and blue-eyed and blonde and he was dark and wild. He laughed at her accent and called her Babe and pretended she was too delicate to go out in the rain, and she said, ‘Yeah, right, I’m delicate,’ and put her hand down his jeans. That was a good time.

The refreshments trolley approaches, rattling and clinking its cargo of drinks. The fat children look up, their lips and fingers smeared with chocolate, and set up a new whine.

‘Want a Coke, Mum!’

‘Thirsty, Mum!’

‘You want me to belt you one?’ offers the fat mother.

‘But Mu-u-um!’

‘I’m warning you, Wayne!’

‘But I’m thirsty!’

So she gets them both Cokes, and they drink eagerly, sucking on their straws with long pulls. Then they return to the Celebrations.

The train is coming in to East Croydon. People are getting up, leaving their seats. Chloe gets up too. She drags her suitcase through to the next carriage, pushing her way past the people who are preparing to get off.

There she finds an empty window seat with just one other person on the other side, and she’s sat down and pulled her suitcase in beside her before she realizes it’s someone she knows.

‘Alice?’

‘Chloe?’

It’s Alice Dickinson. She’s hardly seen her since they were at prep school together over five years ago. Now she’s all tall and thin, her face a little too long for her features, and more interesting than she used to be. Chloe runs a rapid check and decides it’s the eyes. There’s something appealing about those big brown eyes.

‘Home for Christmas?’

‘Yes,’ says Alice. ‘Term just ended.’

Her voice is soft and musical. Chloe remembers Alice as a silent child. People change.

‘Me too. I’m at Exeter. I’ve been on trains for bloody hours.’

‘I’m at UCL.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Okay. Still settling in, really.’

‘My first term’s been a total disaster,’ says Chloe cheerfully. Already in such a brief exchange she has satisfied herself that Alice remains one of life’s losers. She can tell from her tone of voice, and from the way she looks at her. The combination of timidity and envy gives Chloe a familiar sensation of power.

‘Why? What happened?’ says Alice.

‘Oh, I got this boyfriend called Hal, and then I had a thing with a guy called Robbie, and Hal went nuts and dumped me, and Robbie turned out to be a pain in the bum, and I had a row with the girls in my house, I thought this girl had such a great personality but really she’s so insecure, and I feel like I’ve not slept for a whole term, so all I’m going to do over Christmas is sleep.’

‘Wow.’

‘How about you?’

‘I’m pretty tired, actually. The work’s been pretty relentless.’

They talk about their work and their teachers and never having enough money, with Chloe doing most of the talking, but little by little Alice opens up. By the time they get to Gatwick Chloe feels able to move on to more personal topics.

‘So what’s the story with boyfriends?’ she asks.

‘Not much of a story at all,’ says Alice.

‘No boyfriends?’

‘I’m not like you, Chloe.’

‘So what? I should hope not. But you look great, Alice. Why shouldn’t you have boyfriends?’

‘Oh, I expect I will. I’m just not very good at it, I suppose. I’m not sure I know how to play the game.’

This interests Chloe.

‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘It is a game. If I fancy a boy I tell a friend, like, hey, I really like Hal, but don’t tell him. So the friend tells him. Then Hal comes on to me, and I play hard to get. Even though I’m the one started it.’

Alice listens and a smile forms on her thin face. When she smiles she’s almost beautiful. Chloe senses her admiration, and it makes her like her.

‘I could never do that,’ says Alice.

‘It’s all a bit juvenile. I expect I’ll grow up one day.’

‘No, I think it’s great. I wish I could do it. But I just can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I don’t really believe it would ever work.’

‘Why not? Don’t you think boys fancy you?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Well, you’re wrong. Believe in yourself. Think sexy and you become sexy.’

Alice laughs. ‘You, maybe,’ she says.

‘I’m serious. It’s not hard. Boys want girls. You just have to show you’re interested, without being too easy. You have to make them work for it a bit.’

‘But I don’t know how.’

She gazes at Chloe with such a puzzled yearning that Chloe is enchanted. This is a new role for her: teacher of the art of love. Back in the Underhill days Alice had always been cleverer than her. She probably still is. There’s something delicious about this reversal of roles.

‘You want me to help you?’

‘Help me how?’

‘Get you fixed up. Over Christmas.’

Alice blushes a deep red.

‘Who with?’

‘I don’t know. Who do you fancy? There must be some boy you know who you like.’

‘No, not really.’

‘How about Jack Broad?’

Jack Broad comes to mind because Chloe met him on the street in Lewes a week or so before term started, and they stopped and talked for a few minutes. He was friendly, a little nervous, they gossiped about school friends, exchanged numbers so they could link up in the Christmas holidays, maybe get some others together from the old Underhill crowd. Jack isn’t Chloe’s type at all, to her eyes he seems too young, barely fifteen, though presumably he’s eighteen or nineteen like all the rest of their year.

‘I haven’t seen Jack for ages,’ says Alice.

‘He got into Cambridge.’

‘Good for him.’

‘So he’d do, wouldn’t he?’

Alice laughs, blushing still.

‘Honestly, Chloe.’

‘I promise you, it’s easier than you think. It’s all about putting ideas into people’s heads. I’ll meet up with Jack, tell him about you, how you blush when I talk about him, da-de-da, he can look you up on Facebook – you are on Facebook?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got some pictures of you looking gorgeous?’

‘Well …’

‘Sure you have. We all have. So I give him your number or I give you his or whatever. Then you meet up. And you’re away.’

‘Or not.’

‘This is Christmas. People are up for it. All you have to do is look like you want it.’

‘How do I do that?’

‘Like this.’

Chloe puts her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, and gazes at Alice with her eyes lifted up in the pose made famous by Princess Diana.

‘You look at him like there’s nothing in the world but him, and you’re all his.’

She doesn’t add that it helps to put your hand down his jeans. Alice is a learner. One step at a time.

‘Isn’t that too obvious?’

‘You can’t be too obvious. There’s no such thing as too obvious. The best method of all would be to say, Hey, big boy, want a fuck? But we’re too ladylike for that. Just.’

Alice laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.

Chloe’s phone chirps. A text from Baz.

When RU back?