Love Is a Thief (26 page)

‘I’ve seen the photo, Kate.’ Great. ‘And, Kate …’

‘Yes, Peter.’

‘It’s Dr Patel. You should really call him Doctor.’ Unbelievable. ‘And you seemed to like kissing Julien …’

‘Peter, have you flown here to discuss kissing? Because if you have I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to you about strawberry-smelling Annabel and the pool party—’ Oh, dear God, was I really about to mention this after 25 years? ‘It was just after my birthday, Peter. How could you?’ Yes, yes, I was. Peter looked confused. ‘Annabel … Strawberry
ChapStick …
always carried a
Care Bear
with her …’

‘Oh, Annabel! I can’t believe you remember Annabel.’ I couldn’t believe he didn’t. ‘God, she was lovely. I wonder what she’s doing now? Do you know her father won a Nobel Peace Prize in 1987 for his work in particle physics and its specific application to materials that are now used to irrigate land in drought-affected areas of Western Africa?’

‘As if I would know that, Peter!’ I couldn’t believe I’d rekindled an interest in bloody Annabel strawberry lips and her stupid dad. ‘Peter, why do you care who I kiss? How did you know Mr Patel is a doctor, and why are you here?’ I was snappish. I was tired. I was ill. I was about to become one of those drinkers who needs alcohol to get over the night before.

‘I saw your grandma a few days ago,’ he said, shuffling closer. ‘As always she willingly offered up private pieces of information about other people’s lives.’ That had
not
been my experience of Grandma recently. She’d been a padlocked vault of secrets concerning Peter Parker. ‘She told me about your plans regarding your, er, fertility.’ Great. ‘She gave me an update on your kissing challenge.’ Great. ‘And she showed me the map of the world. I’d totally forgotten you had train-track braces.’ Great. Great. Great. ‘She also said that you’d had a call … from Gabriel.’

Hearing Gabriel’s name pop unexpectedly from the mouth of Peter Parker made me wince. We both sat quietly. I mostly looked at my shoes, which were distractingly filthy.

‘I wasn’t sure how you’d handle the news about the pregnancy. I hoped it wouldn’t cause you too much pain, which was completely unrealistic. I just, I don’t like the idea that someone has the ability to make you feel sad. And I can’t believe there is a man out there who had you in his life and let you go like that, who didn’t treat you as you deserve. That made me feel … angry. It still does, which is an unwelcome emotion, and … ‘He rubbed his eyes as if he was finding the whole conversation challenging. ‘Then after last night …’ He nodded as if I’d understand. A cold shiver went through my body. Why did he mention last night? What happened last night? Did I see Peter Parker last night?

‘Peter, how long have you been in New York?’

‘About 90 minutes. I thought I should come, after last night.’ There it was again. What happened last night? ‘You ask very little of me, Kate, and I haven’t been in your life on the many occasions when you might have needed me—’ there weren’t many occasions, there were maybe two, or twelve, thousand ‘—and you never call me in the middle of the night asking for help; well, it was the middle of your night, the start of my day, but you are normally very polite and considerate with the timing of telephone calls, although occasionally a little too generous with the making of them. But you never call too late or too early, and certainly never drunk, so that was a first too.’

Vague hazy memories coming back to me: me in my hotel room; curled up by the mini bar; box of tissues, snotty
nose, pistachio-nut shells all over the floor, many
many
empty mini bottles of rum and yes, yes, I was on the phone and I was.

‘And you have never ever called me before in tears.’ And there it was, the door to my memory swung slowly open. I’d been a weeping drunk, a weeping, hysterical, snotty-nosed, drunk lady. ‘I’m sorry, Kate, you were right on the phone last night. I have been helping everyone else but pushing you away. You are not the cause of what’s going on in my head right now, any confusion I am working through. The past is the past—it doesn’t matter any more—what’s important is you. You are my oldest friend, Kate, and I’m referring to the passage of time when I say that, not your age, before you have a meltdown about being over thirty.’ He reached over and held my hand. ‘Kate, I realise that you wanted to have children with Gabriel, that he is the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, and I can’t imagine what it must feel like to know he’s doing that with someone else. So I’m here for you, if you need me. I’m here.’

He continued to hold my hand, watching me with kind eyes, waiting for me to share some piece of my broken, shattered heart. I knew he wouldn’t utter another word until I told him how I was feeling, so it was sharing or it was silence, and I think we can all agree that I am not one who enjoys wordless voids.

And just for the record, I totally blame the stupid butterfly lady and her ridiculous
always connect with your desires
nonsense for the resulting tequila incident. Her advice couldn’t have been less specific. It left me wide open to misinterpretation, self-sabotage and excess.

‘Peter, I just, I feel like every time I start to move on—’ I was thinking about the nights spent with Julien ‘—or I feel a glimmer of happiness, a moment of joy—’ same nights ‘—something always comes up to chop my legs from under me. This time it’s a call in the middle of the night to say he’s having a baby, next time, what? He gets married? Or has twins? I know what I’m saying is childish and ridiculous. I know it’s not nice to want someone else to feel a bit of pain, but as it stands I don’t feel like I mattered at all, like I didn’t exist. I feel utterly replaceable and insignificant, like, like I am the Insignificant Significant Other—’ I stopped myself as Peter flinched at my words, remembering too late that his ex-wife described him the same way. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

‘Don’t apologise. This isn’t about me, Kate. This is about you and how you are feeling. So, how are you feeling?’

‘I feel like, like it doesn’t seem fair. None of it seems fair. I was the one who had to leave our home when it ended, move countries, again, with nothing. It was me who had to start all over again. He didn’t. He stayed put; same job, same house, same country, family close by, friends around him. He simply found himself another girlfriend who quite literally moved in in my place, and carried on. And I have been trying to learn my lesson. I’ve taken it all on board. And I am
really
trying to make sure other women don’t find themselves in the same position. But what has he lost? Where is his struggle? Where is the great life lesson he’s learned? That stupid search for meaning and personal growth that we all strive for after life dumps a pile of shit on our heads? Why is it that I have felt all this excruciating pain and continue
to do so and him feel nothing of the sort? It doesn’t seem … fair …’ I trailed off, into more of a mutter, and a few tears escaped from my right eye; it’s traditionally the weakest and always gives out before the left one. But the left one followed suit shortly after, tears streaming silently from my eyes (not that there is normally a musical accompaniment). I realised it was the first time I’d cried (sober) since I found out about Gabriel’s baby. Peter took a tissue out of his inner pocket and dabbed my cheeks dry, allowing me to continue.

‘What did he lose, Peter?’ I mumbled, looking up at him, hoping somehow he knew all the answers. He took both of my hands and held them between his own. His hands were warm, palms dry, skin soft. ‘Tell me, what did he lose?’

‘He lost
you
, Kate. That’s what Gabriel lost. He lost you.’ Tears rolled out of both corners of my eyes like an overly squeezed Tiny Tears doll. ‘Kate, by the sound of it Gabriel got into another relationship to distract himself, perhaps to fill a gap, the space you left, and now she is pregnant, which I doubt was planned. That is not an enviable situation to be in. It’s probably quite scary. It’s not something I would wish for myself, or for you or for them. And the situation probably makes him miss you even more, having a poor substitute, a poor man’s Kate. I would choose to miss you every day and be alone than try to find a substitute and be stuck with that substitute for the rest of my life. I’d choose heartbreak and healing over that any day.’

We both sat silently for a few moments, holding hands, which was a bit odd.

‘Kate, my ex-wife moved on very quickly after we broke up. She met someone, someone very different from me, and
never looked back. And while I never doubt that ending our relationship was the right thing, her meeting someone so fast and finding happiness almost immediately, it was a bitter pill. It made me question how important I could have been to her. And I think it actually distracted me from moving on with my life, because I kept focusing on what she was doing, focusing on how she was moving on, focusing on how happy she must be, wondering what that said about me as a man and a husband if I was so replaceable. But this is the ego at work. These are the bits of our brain that we need to shut down, switch off, take control of. You need to tune that noise out. And that is what I did. And that’s what you have to do. Given the choice to be with her again, I wouldn’t want to. That is not the life I want for myself. And that is the only thing I need to know. And I think given the choice to be with Gabriel again you’d probably say
no
too. Do you want that kind of relationship again?’ He twitched, by mere millimetres, while waiting for my response. Just a few extra blinks, a jaw clench, as if he was trying to look casual, just to reassure me how casual the question was, which made me anxious, twitchy and blinky, as if I were on a lie detector and his hand were taking my pulse. Had Grandma asked him to come here to ask that question and assess my response? Was he testing me to see if I was lying? To see if I might snap at any moment and jump on the first flight back to France to beg Gabriel to impregnate me and get married? Was he …? Hang on a minute … Was this post-alcohol paranoia? Bloody Alcohol! It is not the light-hearted social lubricant everyone thinks—damn you, Tequila!

‘Kate? Given the choice, would you want to be with Gabriel again?’ More facial twitching.

‘No,’ I said before twitching, blinking, squinting. ‘No.’ I was about to go for a third
no
but realised I sounded as if I was trying to convince myself. Had I convinced Peter Parker?

‘Great, so just keep telling yourself that. Focus on you. Focus on what is good for you and not what someone else is doing. And if you do that you’ll start to feel really good about yourself. That’s exactly what I did. And I feel great.’

‘Peter, how long were those demons in your head making you think you were replaceable?’

‘I think about two, no, no, it was at least three days, and then I took control of the situation, and I moved on.’ Ah, the simplicity of the male mind. ‘Now, Kate, I think you need to get some sleep, drink lots of fluids and if you are free tomorrow maybe we could go to Beatrice’s recital together, and talk more about Gabriel if you need to.’ He let go of my hand and stood up from the tiny chair. ‘Oh, and before I forget there are a couple of other things I wanted to clear up while I’m here—’ The corners of his mouth were twitching, which was a sure sign he considered what he was about to say rather amusing. ‘Kate, I’ll be honest, I am not sure about being a sperm donor for you.’ Oh, good God, no. ‘Yes, you did ask me that last night and I am yet to get my head around offering out the fruit of my loins in that context, even to you.’

‘Understood.’

‘And I’ve arranged a meeting for you at Westminster with the Education Secretary. It’s only a ten-minute chat
but that’s enough time for you to tell him a bit about your Love-Stolen Dreams drop-in centres. He’ll let you know if he can take it any further. There is one tiny condition. They asked, no, they insisted that Jenny Sullivan be there. Don’t say anything. You will take up the offer and say thank you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And something else that feels fairly important to mention at this juncture—’ there was a glint in his eye ‘—although I am slightly perplexed by the confusion surrounding this, but, I am not, and I never will be, gay.’

‘Oh?’ The word just popped out. I was confused. How could he
not
be gay? In my mind he was shacked up with a bloody great wrestler called Stu.

‘You were terribly sad about it on the phone, although you did say the sperm donation would make up for it.’ Drunk bartering, excellent. ‘Yes, you were very
very
sad about my homosexuality. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you had a little crush on me.’ I flushed
luminous
red. ‘I’m kidding!’ he said, gently squeezing my shoulder. ‘I’m just kidding—it was a joke. So I’ll see you tomorrow?’ He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before turning to leave, walking in what felt like slow motion from the room, walking as if there were a spotlight on him, a 1950s movie star. And there was definitely a spotlight on me too, a spotlight of judgement from the staring bar staff and a maître d’, who shook his head every time he looked in my direction. This must have been where I’d been drinking the night before. Wonderful …

I took myself back upstairs to my room, processing the evening’s events. Peter Parker wasn’t gay. How odd. How
unexpected. How confusing. Once again I could feel my universe shift slightly on its axis.

That night I went to bed feeling different, feeling a kind of sepia colour, which is not yellow per se, and it’s not white, but it’s definitely not black and it certainly isn’t grey.

an interval

D
ear
True Love,

Hi, it’s Annie-pants. I wanted to let you know that I went on the basic clothes design course and it was brilliant. I admit the first few weeks I was nervous. I kept getting a last-minute urge to cancel, finding excuses to work late, or go to the gym, or do my laundry—anything to avoid going, which was odd, but I stuck with it and I love it. And I have also been attending a few lectures at London College of Fashion. In fact lots of the universities have free or really cheap one-off workshops that I can just drop in to. Last Sunday I went to a lecture about the history of hat making, which as I write it seems a bit dull but I can assure you it was very interesting
.