State We're In (29 page)

‘The encounter you mentioned on the plane, the one you said was married?'

She picked up her cocktail and drank a healthy slug. ‘OK, I've never
intentionally
been the bit on the side. Sometimes they don't mention they're married until after they roll off the Durex.'

‘Charming.'

‘Isn't it.' Jo looked weary.

Dean was confused. He was glad, even relieved, that Jo wasn't the sort of woman who was prepared to share; on the other hand, he was irritated, even revolted, by her faulty reasoning. Wasn't this further proof that the dream she hankered after simply didn't exist? Married men slept around, single women sucked it up. How could that be the recipe for happily ever after? It wasn't even as straightforward as that. His father's mistress – the important one, the one Eddie Taylor had abandoned his family for – had been married too. Immorality and disappointing behaviour wasn't gender specific. Indeed, it was the widespread nature of it that depressed Dean. How could Jo know all this and yet draw the conclusion that somehow she'd buck the trend, somehow she'd fall madly, deeply, truly in love? How could she think that was going to happen with a man who was planning on marrying someone else? She was so blinkered. So self-deluded. So frustrating. So …

Hopeful. Dean shook his head. Hope wasn't something he usually admired, and certainly had never harboured. Being hopeful in the face of such overwhelming evidence was simply idiotic. He felt he had to explain as much to her. It was his duty.

‘And you think it follows that because this guy wasn't unfaithful to you, he must be the One?'

‘That's part of it.'

‘How old were you two when you dated?'

‘Late twenties.'

‘So you were at it all the time.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘I'm just saying that most healthy dating couples in their twenties have a lot of sex and so he probably didn't need to mooch about.'

‘Lovely. You're saying that the only reason a man would be faithful to me is if I shagged him senseless and he didn't have the energy to look about.' Jo was offended.

‘No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying this Martin guy was untested. Maybe he'd have been different in his mid-forties.'

‘No. I think he's the faithful type.'

‘Then how are you planning to lure him away from his current fiancée?'

Jo looked shocked. She clearly hadn't given her plan enough thought. Flustered, she began to loudly list her ex's other attributes. ‘And he's good-looking. Well, at least good-looking enough. Maybe he isn't the sort of guy who makes girls stop in the street, but he's tall.'

‘You mentioned that,' said Dean calmly as he sipped on his drink. He oozed the confidence of a man who did make women stop and stare; he was the recipient of many double-takes.

‘I'd like to have tall kids. And he has a good job. I'm not really too bothered about cash, but I do want to be with someone solvent.' Jo sighed. ‘I know I am coming across as shallow, but I'm not. My reasons for wanting to marry Martin are complex.' She reached for her cocktail and took another enormous gulp; Dean doubted she could even taste the drink. The millions of lights from the street lamps and from the windows of the shops and skyscrapers that framed the park no doubt were blurring as she fought back the tears that suddenly, treacherously brimmed. Dean refused to succumb to his feelings of sympathy or even pity. This woman needed to wake up.

‘Amplify,' he insisted.

‘Must I?'

‘Can't you?' Dean waited for her response; prepared to bide his time but not prepared to let her off the hook. There was a breeze building, easing the warm day into a cool evening. Dean welcomed it. He felt that they both needed to calm down, but he wasn't sure why, exactly. He was always aware of the size of the city he lived in. His world was vast. He was small. He understood as much and even took a perverse comfort from it. He didn't kid himself that he was consequential, and therefore he was able to be careless without being irritated by twinges of guilt. Jo was small too. So was this Martin bloke, but she didn't seem to get it. They were all insignificant bit players. There was no such thing as fate or destiny. She and Martin were not meant for one another in some magnificent way. Life was chaotic. How could she put so much faith in one man to have dashed across the globe, chasing a wispy concept? He marvelled at the self-confidence that was required to have such thoughtless hope and blind faith, even as he disdainfully mocked it.

‘I guess the truth is, I'm thirty-five years old. And I'm lonely.' Jo allowed the word to settle on the table between them. It was a humiliating but truthful and clear word. He'd assumed she must have doused any flicker of self-awareness at puberty and was therefore shocked by her response. ‘Have you ever thought that the only thing you really want to do is screw up your life into a tight ball, like you might screw up a piece of paper, and chuck it away?' She glanced at him from under her eyelashes. It wasn't a flirtatious move; it was genuine shyness. Even this strangely guileless woman with a penchant for over-sharing was struggling to admit to such gloomy despondency.

He had thought this himself, on many, many occasions, but had never heard anyone divulge as much. He did not dare move in case she thought he was nodding; empathy would expose him. She tried to smile, but he knew it was one of those painful, necessary smiles that was entirely about outward appearances and nothing to do with inward emotions.

‘Have you ever thought there's nothing you can do except start again but in the same instant realised that there's no chance of that, as few of us ever get the chance to start again?'

‘Except Buddhists,' said Dean with a gentle grin. He would never own up to having had those thoughts, however long ago he had them; he'd never disclose as much, so he hid behind humour. Jo grasped at the straw he'd offered her and tried to jest too.

‘Yes, but even then there's a lack of control that bothers me. I don't want to start again as a cockroach, or a goat herder in south-east Alaska for that matter. Plus, they're not supposed to drink.' She reached for her cocktail, sipped it as though to make her point. They fell into another silence, but this one was sharper than those that had gone before; it had an edge to it. She wasn't finished; she had more to say. ‘I'm sure you think I just want a big wedding, that I'm hung up on the day itself.'

‘Well …' He had the decency not to finish the sentence, which would have involved either lying or hurting her feelings.

‘Everyone thinks the same. I'm a joke to my friends and sister, probably to my parents. They think I'm some desperate man-hunting Bridezilla, without sense or reason. But it's not about the day.'

‘Isn't it?'

‘I could take it or leave it truthfully. I mentioned my parents have been married for an eternity.'

‘Yes.'

‘And I told you I think that families are important, worthwhile. Such a support.'

‘Yes.'

‘That's what I want.' She paused, relaxing and revelling in the simplicity of her statement and at the same time determinedly fighting the mounting despair that she'd ever accomplish her ambition. ‘I want a family of my own. A husband to love, who loves me in return. Who'll love me when I'm tired, or cross, or wrong. When I'm old. And I'll love him unconditionally too. We'll have kids. Two, possibly three. Our house will be noisy, chaotic, but happy. We'd have friends and family around for Sunday lunch, and some days it would just be us snuggled up under the duvet watching a movie on the TV. I'd be good at it. I have a lot of love to give. That's what I yearn for.'

Yearn was such an exposing word that it almost hurt Dean to hear her say it. He didn't take his eyes off her throughout her speech; he couldn't. He was mesmerised by her frankness, her surprising self-awareness and her old-fashioned ambitions. His quiet seriousness encouraged her to carry on.

‘My mistakes are overwhelming. I've had chances, and it's not just that I've let them slip away; I've actively shoved them away, flushed them down the loo, run away from them screaming. I hate hindsight. Foresight is the hot one. The must-have.' She tried to smile again, but he still wasn't convinced by its authenticity. ‘Martin was a chance. A big six-foot-two chance, with blond hair and brown eyes and a relaxed smile. A maths degree from Bristol and a career as a management consultant. He had good legs too. Genetically he'd have been a winner, and he wanted me. He did. He loved me. He really did.'

‘I don't doubt it.' Dean could imagine such a man loving this woman. Suddenly, under the stars on this clear night, he thought that most men would love her if they got to know her. ‘You'll meet someone else,' he muttered. It wasn't just a platitude; he believed she would. He still didn't believe in the happily-ever-after true-love thing, but he did think someone might do as well as Martin for her.

She shook her head. ‘No, I've tried. There isn't anyone out there. I've looked. I really have.' She waved her hand into the evening; bright lights outlined the buildings, bridges and rail racks, laughter and music cracked the darkness, but Dean knew she could no longer see or hear variety and possibilities. Confirming his thoughts, she added, ‘I don't have it in me any more. I've been battling and fighting for so long. Years. It is exhausting. Being eternally my best self on the off chance I might attract someone for long enough for them to be comfortable with my worst self is
exhausting
. It hurts to be such a big failure, of course, but having had chances hurts more. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? It's a question I've often mulled over, and the answer is no! Categorically, definitively not. It's much better to live in blissful ignorance than to know just how happy you could have been when you're not. Martin and I may have some sort of salvageable history. I say he is the One because, well, he's my best chance.'

She pushed away her plate. She'd hardly touched the hot dog or the mountain of fries that had arrived as a side. Dean knew the dogs were delicious; he could only assume that she couldn't find the energy. It was all too much. She paused and fingered the stem of her cocktail glass.

‘Shall we get the bill?' she suggested, defeated.

Dean nodded and swiftly caught the eye of the waitress. As he put the cash on the little silver plate, he turned to Jo. ‘You know what? I think you're wrong. Martin isn't your best chance. He's just your best chance so far.' It wasn't much in the way of consolation, but it was all he had. She shrugged and wouldn't meet his eye.

Dean was touched by her honesty. Touched and a bit embarrassed. He had been planning on just seeing her into a cab and sending her on to her hotel. After all, by anyone's standards he'd already shown extreme consideration. He'd taken her shopping for a new outfit, he'd fed her, he'd fixed up the hotel; surely his work here was done. But suddenly he was drenched with a sense of anxiety and foreboding. He wasn't sure if sending her off alone in a cab was still the best plan of action. He couldn't quite decide whether her obviously fragile state was the result of her alcohol intake, her jet lag or her sad heart. Whichever it was, he thought there was a reasonable chance that she'd be refused entry into the hotel unless he accompanied her. He didn't want to think about her wandering the streets of Chicago alone late at night, so he hailed a cab for the two of them.

They didn't say much as they sat side by side in the dark. She shivered, and so Dean handed her his jacket. She didn't hang it carefully around her shoulders, the way women tended to do when they wore a man's jacket; instead she slipped it on properly, preferring to benefit from its warmth than caring whether she looked cute. They both stared out of the window, watching the bright and the buoyant, the edgy and the inebriated who littered the streets. It was a bustling, vibrant city; Dean wished Jo could see the opportunities he could see – the people she could make friends with, the career she could pursue, the conversations she could have, the places she could visit – but he thought it was most likely that she was still thinking about hijacking Martin's wedding. Her only thought and ambition.

He waited while she checked into the hotel, and then it was time for them to say goodbye. They lingered in the elegant marble-clad lobby, trying to keep their voices low but aware that the bored and fatigued man on reception was following every word.

‘Thanks so much for all your help today. The outlet shopping, dinner, finding this place …' Jo trailed off. Perhaps it was a bit much, all added. Dean waved his hand, dismissing her thanks as though his consideration was commonplace; he also pretended not to notice how much effort she was putting into enunciating her words correctly. She was trying not to give away the fact that she was in danger of slurring because she was quite drunk, but her endeavours had the opposite effect.

‘Hey, it's been …' He paused. ‘Lovely,' he concluded, borrowing her word.

‘It has, hasn't it?' She beamed back at him. ‘Although all day I've had to ask myself, why are you even here?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘With me. Haven't you got better things to do?'

Dean considered. ‘I have no idea. Maybe I'm fatally attracted to lost causes.'

‘This is not a lost cause.' She poked him playfully in the belly; she had to have noticed his hard abs.

‘This is a cause so deeply and darkly lost that I was thinking of buying you a miner's torch and a canary in a cage,' replied Dean.

‘Ha ha, very funny.' Jo paused and then asked what Dean had known she would and hoped she wouldn't. ‘Come with me.'

‘No, I can't.'

‘Yes you can. Why not? It would look so cool if I had you on my arm when I walked in. You'd be a confidence boost because you are so very good-looking.' She bestowed the compliment that Dean had heard a million times before in a slightly shy slur; her desire to be genuine had forced her to abandon all attempts at appearing sober.