State We're In (26 page)

‘Sounds good. What is it exactly?'

‘An eight-ounce hot dog with sweet relish, tomatoes, onions, pickles and celery salt, served with south-western coleslaw. It's really not your average hot dog, I promise. Come on, you'd be doing me a favour. I need to eat too.'

They decided to take advantage of the pleasantly warm spring evening and chose seats outside. They flopped back in the leather tub chairs, prepared to enjoy the vibrant downtown scene. Together they watched as the sun sank and they waited for the stars to begin to glisten. Dean glanced around him and noticed that they were surrounded by couples eagerly embarking on date nights; he grimly predicted that by the early hours the streets would be rammed with the disappointed casualties: bitter men, weeping women. A normal Friday night. He tried to tune out the hopeful glances, the tentative jokes and the desperate plunging necklines, and instead concentrated on studying the cocktail list and appreciating the jazz band that was sizzling nearby.

Jo glanced from left to right, taking in the animated, dazzling surrounds, and beamed. ‘This place is amazing! Have you noticed that it's full of lovers?'

‘I was trying not to.'

‘You never think of Chicago as a romantic city, do you?'

‘No, I don't.'

‘You think of Paris or Venice or Rome.'

‘No, I don't.'

She grinned at his interruptions, assuming he was joking. ‘But Chicago
is
romantic.'

‘I wonder whether Martin's fiancée will agree with you tomorrow,' commented Dean. He didn't want to burst her bubble, but he couldn't pretend that what she was doing was right.

Jo looked crestfallen. ‘Why do you have to bring that up? It spoils everything. Can't we just enjoy the evening?'

‘OK, you know my position. I won't say another word.' He held his hands up in mock surrender. She was right: he should just enjoy the evening. What did he care if she ruined some other woman's big day? It wasn't his business. So what if she gave this Martin bloke a heart attack? Or if she simply made herself look like a damn fool? Why should he worry about that? Not his concern. He should just enjoy the evening, not let her shake his world. He didn't have to think of anyone other than himself. Tonight didn't have to be any different from any other night.

‘Let's get a drink,' he suggested.

D
ean orders a couple of different cocktails, I don't catch their names, and tells the waitress that we'll take ‘Dogs and beer later. Or maybe wine.' He glances at me as he says as much, presumably eliciting an opinion. I shrug and smile, happy to leave the decision with him. After all, he's kindly offered to foot the bill; I feel that gives him call over whether we have grain or grape.

The waitress glances in my direction, just once. She swiftly and enviously appraises me. From her disbelieving and disapproving expression I can read her mind. I can practically see the thought bubble above her head: ‘Why is this cute guy with this plain girl? She's not even wearing lipstick.' I just stop myself saying, ‘Hey, sister, I too wish I had found time to apply.' I know I look a mess. Who can look good after a transatlantic flight, daytime drinking and insufficient sleep? Other than Kate Moss. By rights I should have collapsed with exhaustion by now, but oddly, I feel animated, even vibrant. However, as a nod to personal grooming, I do hitch up my bra strap, which has fallen off my shoulder. The waitress rolls her eyes and then turns back to Dean to give him the full power of her smile, cleavage and knowledge of the jazz band's playlist. When he treats her to a bright grin, she practically crawls on to his knee. He isn't my date and I have no reason to resent her flirtatious ways.

But I do.

Truth is, I want him to myself for the evening. I need moral support; tomorrow is a big day for me. The biggest. I feel jittery; nerves and excitement clash around my gut, making me feel sick. Before I can actually gag, I decide to think and talk about something else. When the waitress finally wrenches herself away from Dean, I turn to him and ask, ‘So tell me, did you always dream of being an advertising executive?'

‘I dreamt about a lot of things. Like most boys I wanted to be a superhero, a footballer, a fireman, a cowboy.' He counts off his ambitions on his fingers.

‘They didn't work out for you, hey?' I say, fighting an image of Dean dressed as a fireman throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me to safety; Dean as a cowboy galloping over the plains returning to me wearing a Laura Ingalls bonnet and bloomers (I'm the one in the bonnet and bloomers, by the way, not him). I shake my head to clear the not-quite-just-friends visions.

‘Mostly I wanted to be rich, and certainly to get away,' adds Dean bluntly.

‘So what part of the UK are you from that made you want to get away so badly?'

Before he has a chance to reply, the waitress returns to our table with the cocktails and I have to endure more eyelash batting. When she stops creating a draught and leaves us alone, Dean doesn't give me an answer but instead asks, ‘What about you? Did you always want to be a journalist?'

‘I always wanted to be married. That's been my enduring ambition.'

Dean is sipping his cocktail and so his laugh explodes into his drink, causing it to spurt over the table.

‘Hey, don't waste good alcohol,' I chastise.

Still grinning, he replies, ‘Actually, it's a virgin cocktail. I don't drink alcohol.'

‘Really?' I'm surprised. This doesn't fit with my image of smooth, tall, dark and handsome Dean the ad man. I assumed he spent his life ordering martinis shaken not stirred, James Bond style, but thinking about it, he only had orange juice on the plane. ‘Why don't you—'

Before I can finish my sentence Dean jumps in and asks, ‘So how did you end up a journalist?'

It's a good question, yet not one I've ever given that much thought to; I spend most of my time wondering how I've ended up failing to marry. ‘Well, I sort of fell into it, I suppose. I was good at English at school. I particularly loved reading novels.'

‘Let me guess, romantic ones?'

‘Yes. So?' I try to ignore his amused sarcasm and his point. ‘I read English at university and then when I graduated I didn't really know what to do with myself. One of my lecturers suggested that I do a postgraduate course in journalism; it seemed as good an idea as any, so I did.' I am aware that I don't sound very impressive. I have a great job – or at least I did have, until yesterday – and yet I've sort of shuffled into it rather than striven for it, and then I let it slip away. I feel a faint flush of embarrassment. I need to deflect. ‘Look, we're always talking about me. What about you?'

On the plane, he talked about his work a lot. I managed to establish that he lives in a swanky apartment, adores his sister and is allergic to shellfish. I guessed his favourite films and was surprised by his book choices, but I didn't discover what his five best memories are, and whilst he was indiscreet about his mates' love lives, he gave me no hint about his own. By contrast, he knows practically all there is to know about me, including all the gory details of the last half-dozen guys I've dated, the fact that my favourite childhood toy was a doll called Bridie and that I cheated at my Latin O level by writing declensions on the inside of my pencil case. He has a brilliant way of eliciting confidences and he clearly prefers to talk about other people's lives rather than his own; he's the one that should have been the journalist.

‘What do you want to know about me?'

What
do
I want to know about him? Everything? Yes, everything. But mostly I want to know if he has a girlfriend. Not that it's any of my business, but naturally I'm curious. Don't read anything into that; it's just that I like talking about relationships. It's my thing. I hunt around for some subtle way into that conversation. ‘What do you do with your free time?'

‘I eat, make money and have a laugh with my mates.' No mention of a girlfriend. ‘I'm a demon for adrenalin rushes. I snowboard most weekends in the winter and I go mountain biking in the spring and summer, grass sledging, water skiing. You name it, I've probably tried it.'

Something about the way he says that last sentence causes me to feel a bit flustered. I can't help imagining that he might mean he's tried all manner of exciting things in other walks of life, namely the bedroom. Images of him tied up, tying up others, licking ice cream off women's buttocks and then systematically working his way through the Kama Sutra spring to mind. I'm not a prude, far from it, but suddenly I don't know quite how to reply. Is he being flirtatious, or am I imagining it? Do I
want
him to flirt with me? No, surely not. I'm bigger and better than that, aren't I? Why would I want that level of complication? Well, besides the fact that when he accidentally nudged my boob outside the plane loos I nearly exploded with sexual tension. A devastating, blatant attraction that I haven't felt in I don't know how long. Possibly ever.

Besides that.

‘It's all deeply impressive. What's the most dangerous thing you've ever done?' I stutter, trying to stay on track.

‘I've swum with sharks.'

‘Is that a metaphor?'

‘No. I literally have swum with real sharks, although thinking about the politics in my office, yeah, it could be a metaphor. And I've been abseiling a few times. I've tried bungee jumping, skydiving and rafting.' I really want him to shut up now. I'm actually intimidated just listening to him. He's making me feel like a great big
gap
. The most adventurous thing I've ever done is limbo under quite a low bar at the Notting Hill Carnival (I also ate finger food there, without a napkin, but still, it's not exactly living dangerously). He's the complete opposite to me. Besides the fact that he is a scary daredevil, he doesn't drink, whereas I'm a wimp who is so athletically challenged I might literally drown in a cocktail one of these days. We'd never make a couple. I always look for at least eighty-five per cent compatibility in online dating tests. Totally mismatched. Just saying.

‘Very Boy's Own,' I say with a forced smile. His energy exposes my apathy in a startling, not at all pleasant way. I raise my hand above my head and wave frantically to the waitress; she ignores me. Dean raises an eyebrow a fraction and she is at our table in an instant.

‘Can we order some bread?'

‘With dogs in rolls coming?' The waitress looks aghast, clearly much more concerned about my carb intake than I am. ‘I'd suggest olives.'

‘I don't like olives.'

‘Have you ever tried them?' asks Dean. I glare at him, much like my nephews glare at my sister at the dining table, then I have to admit that no, I haven't tried olives, at least not since I was about twelve. I know what Dean is going to say next. ‘How do you know you don't like them until you've tried them? We'll take the goat's-cheese-stuffed olives,' he adds, turning to the waitress.

‘Good choice,' she smarms, and then swooshes away back to the kitchen in a veritable cloud of glossy hair. I stare after her perky buttocks. I think she must be a decade younger than I am.

‘You'll love them,' Dean reassures me.

I hold my grin. I hate the thought of having to eat food that looks a lot like greasy slugs, but having heard what Dean does with his spare time, it is impossible to admit that I'm scared of trying an olive. We stay silent until the perky waitress returns with the olives. As she leans to put them on the table, she practically wipes her breasts on Dean's face. Not that he looks as though he minds as much as I do.

‘Do you know what? When I was a kid, I was a Queen's Guide,' I say, as I take a gulp of my margarita.

‘And what does that entail?' Dean asks politely.

‘I could change a plug by the time I was eight. I climbed Snowdon when I was eleven. I put on theatre productions with my friends and we performed them for pensioners in their residential homes. I went on trekking holidays with youth groups in Turkey and Norway. I could build a washing-up stand out of sticks.'

‘What?'

‘Actually, thinking about that last one, I wonder about its actual usefulness, but it was bold at the time.' I pause. ‘What I'm saying is, there was a point in my life when I never said no to an opportunity.' I'm thinking specifically about opportunities that had nothing to do with netting a bloke, but I can't bring myself to admit that aloud. I wonder about my motivation for trying the olives. Am I hoping to impress Dean, or do I want to show myself I'm not afraid? It's almost impossible to decipher which. Dean nods, but doesn't add or ask anything more. I have a vague feeling that he's managing me, waiting for me to draw my own conclusion, a conclusion he has probably reached before me.

I should be doing more.

‘Why are you such a thrill-seeker?'

‘You only get one life.'

‘Yes, but it seems to me that you're behaving in a way that is likely to shorten that one life.'

‘I guess I'm making up for lost time. I was a slow starter. Things didn't take off for me until a bit later than most,' he says with a shrug. He's avoiding my gaze, which is unusual for Dean; he's normally so direct.

‘Did you flunk out of uni?'

‘I never went to uni. Are you going to try these olives?' Dean has already greedily gobbled up a quarter of the bowl.

‘You didn't go to uni?' I probably shouldn't be shocked. It shows I'm sort of small-minded, with a limited repertoire of friends, but
everyone
I know went to university. Kids who go to private schools have to work really hard to avoid it, and those inclined to dodge tertiary education just can't be bothered to put in the required effort to fail. Some of my friends studied PPE at Oxford, others messed about with home economics courses at colleges that had academic records equivalent to a 1950s finishing school, but regardless of the quality of the actual education, everyone I know had three years being a student and all that entails. You know, saving up, staying up, throwing up, growing up. ‘Why not?' Dean seems startlingly clever to me. I'm certain he could have had his pick of unis.