Pear Shaped (8 page)

‘Who was the last person you went out with before me?’ I ask.

‘Svetlana.’

Beautiful Russians are two a penny in this city. James has a lot of pennies. I see these women slicing down Bond Street, hard bodies, steely eyes, spiky boots; russet-faced older men in bad jackets dragging behind in their wake.

‘How long did that last?’

‘Two years.’

‘Why did it end?’

‘It wasn’t going anywhere.’

‘Why not?’

‘I couldn’t talk to her the way I can talk to you.’

‘What did you do for two years?’

He raises his eyebrows and gives me a look that instantly makes me regret having asked the question. I turn to face the window and James’s arm wraps itself around my waist.

‘Sophie Klein. I haven’t felt this way about anyone in twenty years.’ I turn back to look at him. ‘I am truly myself with you.’

He is telling me the truth.

I love him, I love him, I love him.

I love the way he moves his fingers when he explains something. I love the way he loses his temper with an obnoxious waiter at exactly the same point that I would. I love the fact that I can flick a spoonful of spaghetti with meatballs at him and he doesn’t have a hissy fit that I’ve stained his shirt. I love talking to him and I love looking at him and I love thinking about him.

It is a rainy Saturday night in April and I’m teaching James the secret of a foolproof Yorkshire pudding, when my mother rings.

‘Have you spoken to your brother?’ she says.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re not going to believe what that lunatic girlfriend of his is up to …’

‘Go on …’

‘She’s booked a Caesarean for the third week in August.’

‘Isn’t the baby due at the start of September?’ I say.

‘Exactly!’

‘So how does …’

‘She’s
having it
two weeks
early
so that
it’s the same star sign as her
!’ No amount of italics can convey the utter disdain in my mother’s voice.

‘Jesus, what is wrong with her?’ I say. ‘Is that even safe?’

‘Apparently. Sheer lunacy. And your bloody brother’s saying he can’t see what all the fuss is about. I said to him …’

‘Mum, my Yorkshire puddings have just pinged … I can’t talk …’

‘I haven’t even told you what dreadful names they’re thinking of calling my first grandchild …’

‘It’ll have to wait.’

I hang up and explain Shellii to James.

‘All women are mad,’ he says, again. This time I can’t really disagree.

After dinner, James asks what’s for pudding.

‘An experiment,’ I say. ‘Step into my office.’

He follows me to the fridge. Inside are two large pots of custard sent by Will at Appletree, as Phase 1 of the new custard project Devron’s briefed me on.

‘Take your tie off and sit down….’ I wrap it round his eyes in a blindfold and he screams ‘Help!’

‘Just be quiet and focus on your mouth,’ I say.

‘Can’t we focus a bit lower down?’

‘Mouth first.’ I take the custards out and put a spoon in each. ‘First one – what does this taste of?’ I say.

‘Custard. I could do your job, Soph!’

‘Ha, funny. What else?’

‘Vanilla?’

‘And?’

‘Something with alcohol?’

‘Good. Bourbon! Now have a sip of water.’ I carefully pass over a glass, and he deliberately misses his mouth and pours half of it down his shirt, and then takes it off and drops it on the floor.

‘Would sir like a bib?’ I say.

‘Can’t we do this naked?’

‘Health and Safety 101! Ok, second custard – what does this one taste of?’

‘Custard,’ he says.

‘Very clever. What else?’

‘Maple syrup?’

‘Bingo. And does it make you want to eat anything else?’

‘You!’ he says.

‘Engage your brain.’

‘… maybe something crunchy?’

‘Ten out of ten! Your brain’s making a connection between the maple syrup and granola. So I might take this custard and create a dessert that has a layer of almond granola, then the custard, and then something lighter on top, three different textures. With this flavour profile I’d want something less sweet, that complements the custard …’

‘How about my cock?’

‘Great idea! Not sure it can feed 40,000 Fletchers shoppers each week …’

‘We’ll start with just the one, shall we?’ he says, taking his blindfold off, unzipping his fly and taking his pants down.

‘James, do not put your penis in my custard samples. I have to feed those to Devron on Monday. James! Stop it!’

‘You told me you don’t like Devron anyway,’ he says.

‘True, but I do like this custard!’

Too late.

My boyfriend is a custard-covered dick, and I adore him.

‘Devron, I’m sorry but the custard samples aren’t ready for tasting,’ I say on Monday morning.

‘Fine, what are you doing on May 3rd?’

Two weeks’ time – no idea. James is rubbish at forward planning, but as he invariably ends up asking to see me at the weekends, I’m now avoiding making plans with other people.

‘Why, Devron?’

‘I need you to do a quick New York inspiration trip. If I don’t complete last year’s number of trips within a month of year-end financials, I won’t get like for like in this year’s allowance.’

Cool. So, because you have to tick a box on a sheet, I get a free trip to New York! Devron, I’m warming to you.

‘Is there actually anything you need me to do out there?’

‘Yeah, go for a night, have a look at a few cakes and whatnot, take some photos.’

‘For one night?’

‘Budget’s only going to pay for one night in a hotel.’

I love New York too much for a one-night stand.

‘I’ll stay at a friend’s, then can I go for a bit longer? If I stay a Saturday night, the airfare’s always cheaper.’

‘Fine, go for a long weekend, just come back with an idea I can take to the board. I want to show them what success looks like.’

New York! New York! I email my old friend Pauly asking if I can stay at his place for a few nights, and a minute later he mails back a yes.

It’s Saturday night and I’m off to meet James at the pub. As I leave my block of flats I see someone waving at me as they’re getting out of a black cab.

It’s my neighbour, Amber: part-time sarong designer and full-time halfwit.

Amber has seen James and me get in to his car several times. Each time she has stared, looking confused.

Now she rushes over to me with her miniature schnauzer, Annalex, in tow, and grabs my arm. ‘Sophie, long time … who is that guy you’re always with? Is that your brother, is he back from the States?’

‘No. That’s my boyfriend.’

‘Really?! I never think of you as someone who goes out with a Porsche driver.’

Welcome to Amber-World.

‘It’s not a Porsche, it’s a Maserati 3200GT.’ I have not told anybody about James’s car because I am mildly
embarrassed by his money, but I take pleasure in telling Amber. ‘Anyway, what do you mean by that?’

‘You know, you go out with struggling artist types. Does your boyfriend have any single mates?’

I think about Rob. Rob would love Amber – she is a size 4, has no body fat and sports a permanent Ibiza tan. Tonight she is dressed in cowboy boots, tiny denim shorts and a cutaway silver vest.

‘Yes, his friend Rob. He’s really handsome, thirty-six,
he
drives a Porsche, works for Goldman Sachs …’

Her eyes couldn’t be any wider if she’d necked a fistful of Es.

‘Oh. Sorry, Amber, I forgot – he’s engaged … Oh well. Anyway, aren’t you still seeing Ritchie?’

She shrugs. This shrug means ‘I am thirty-one, very soon I will have to stop dating sexy rock ’n’ roll wannabe music-producer cokeheads, and bag myself a pudgy older Notting Hill banker. He’ll give me shitloads of cash to do up a huge three-storey second home with a pool in Oxfordshire and then I can ride horses and shag the local talent while the au pair looks after the kids and Rory bankrolls my Moroccan scented candle business.’

‘By the way, remember that £100 I lent you …’ I say, as she hands the cabbie a £50 note.

This always works like a charm whenever I want to get rid of Amber and sure enough, as she takes the £30 change from the cabbie, she says, ‘Babe, I’m totally skint at the
moment but I’ll pop round soon,’ and hurries into our block.

James and I are three months into our relationship and I haven’t met any of his friends yet, apart from Rob. Laura thinks this is sinister, but I don’t – he hasn’t met any of mine, apart from her. Most of his friends have kids. James says he doesn’t want to share me with anyone. We keep each other endlessly entertained.

But now Laura has made me feel paranoid. So at the pub on Saturday I invited James round for dinner with Pete tonight. Perhaps if I introduce James to more of my friends he’ll follow suit. Besides, he’ll get on well with Pete – they’re both juvenile, charming, fun. Maybe James might register that Pete has a residual crush on me – perhaps it’ll make him more vocal in his affections.

When James left my flat this morning I said ‘Pete’s coming at 7pm.’ He nodded. I haven’t heard from him since. Although I reason I’ll see him later, when he hasn’t rung by 7.40pm, I have a low ache in my stomach, and it isn’t hunger.

The chicken will be ready any minute. Pete’s asking if we should invite my sexy blonde neighbour instead.

James must be working late.

At 7.50pm I take the chicken out, put it under foil and call James.

‘Hello you,’ he says.

‘Where are you?’ I say.

‘At home.’

‘Are you coming for dinner or what?’

‘Sure, see you soon.’

‘That was weird,’ I say to Pete.

‘What? He’s coming, isn’t he?’

‘He is now.’

James arrives looking slightly nervous. The two shake hands and from their posture I sense a mild rivalry in the air.

‘So, are you a North Londoner too?’ says Pete. I’ve already told him all the facts about James, but I’ve forced these two together and Pete’s having to make small talk.

‘East,’ says James. ‘Woodford, born and bred.’

‘My cousins grew up there. What school did you go to?’

‘Forest.’

‘Do you know Alex and Adam Foster, twins?’

‘One of them amazing at football?’ says James.

‘Alex.’

‘Rings a bell.’

I am delighted that there is now a common link as it brings me closer to James.

With a glass of wine they relax and turn their
conversation to cars and girls, as though I’m not here. James says Pete’s Saab is a weird choice for a bloke in his thirties, and Pete says Maseratis are for hairdressers and they both laugh. Pete says his ideal woman would be half Danish, half Brazilian, while apparently my boyfriend’s would be eastern European, definitely.

My grandfather was Polish. Does that count?

I ask Pete to help carve the chicken, and in the kitchen he whispers to me, ‘I was expecting some hunk. He’s just a normal looking bloke.’

‘Don’t you think he looks young for his age?’

‘No, he looks like a 45-year-old who eats a lot of cheese.’

‘You’re just jealous,’ I say.

‘Seriously, Soph, he’s punching above his weight.’

Because of James’s utter self-belief, the confidence that emanates from every pore of him, I always think of it as the other way round. Like I’m punching above mine.

‘Anyway, what do you think Pete?’

‘Seems alright.’

‘And?’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘… Don’t you find him fascinating?’

‘He’s just a man who sells socks.’

‘Shut up, he’s coming.’

‘Eat some more chicken, Soph, you’re looking too skinny,’ says Pete.

‘Do you think?’ says James, raising an eyebrow.

‘You need to put a bit of weight back on,’ says Pete, looking at my arms.

‘Don’t tell her that!’ says James.

Pete only thinks I’m too skinny because he likes big boobs. It’s true my boobs are smaller than they used to be, but that’s always the way when you lose weight. If only I could transplant the small handful of flab left on my bottom to my tits, I’d be laughing, but if I do lose any more weight, I’ll have no bust left, so I’m happy enough where I am.

I head back to the kitchen to take the ice cream out of the freezer and make coffee. When I return, Pete’s already putting on his jacket.

‘You’re leaving?’ I say, ‘we haven’t even had dessert …’

‘I’m really sorry, hon, I have an early meeting. We’ll catch up properly when you’re back from New York.’

He sends me a text on his way home: ‘Thanks for dinner. You seem very happy. I’m glad x.’

In bed later, I turn to James. ‘You’re a bugger to make plans with, you know that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s infuriating, I mean I didn’t know if you were coming tonight or not.’

‘I said I was, didn’t I?’

‘You were actually quite non-committal. I feel like if I hadn’t phoned you, you wouldn’t have turned up at all.’

He shrugs.

‘And I never know when I’m going to see you next. What’s all that about?’ I say.

He looks back at me as if he’s keeping a secret.

‘What is it? Are you scared?’ It’s scary for me too, being vulnerable.

‘I’m not scared,’ he says.

I say nothing but he’s better at this silent tactic than I am.

‘What is it?’ I blurt, after what feels like a full minute.

‘I’m just getting to know you, slowly.’

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just get on with this? I think. You’re heading to fifty, I’m thirty-four this year – we’re not teenagers anymore. Does he not realise that?

I feel like I’m so far down the road of saying something that I might as well follow through, though I have to take a deep breath before I do.

‘Slowly, quickly … you’re either in it or you’re not,’ I say.

He nods, looks at me and smiles. His smile: beautiful.

On Friday morning James drops me at Paddington for the Heathrow Express. I could walk, it’s only ten minutes from my front door, but he insists.

‘You want to make sure I’m leaving town!’ I say. ‘You’re not out with Rob tonight by any chance?’

‘No, quiet weekend, honest, Guv.’ He holds three fingers up in a boy scout salute. ‘– Behave yourself with this Paul person …’ he says, frowning.